The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [91]
But Quin was already ripping away the last shred of cloth. Olivia squeezed her eyes, not wanting to see his face. That damn moonlight was everywhere, illuminating every curve and wobble.
He didn’t touch her, and he didn’t say anything. Olivia felt as though time stood still, leaving her stranded in the most humiliating moment of her life.
When at last he spoke, his voice was greedy and rough. “You don’t really wish that you were a scrawny thing like your sister, do you?”
“Georgiana is not scrawny!” Olivia said, her eyes popping open.
“Like a stick of celery,” Quin said. “Legs like a grasshopper’s. A man wants this, Olivia.” His hands came gently, shaping her breasts.
“I do know that,” Olivia said, shivering as his touch sent flames licking over her body. “I like my breasts.”
His hands slid lower, over the tummy that wasn’t washboard tight, like his, or slender as a dancer’s, like Georgiana’s.
“A man wants this.” His voice was still darker, rusty with passion as his fingers bit into her curves, sank into her warmth.
They slid lower, onto her hips. “You do remember that I never lie?” he asked, his eyes fixed on his hands.
Olivia looked down too, curious, seeing honey-dark hands gripping her hips. She looked like cream in the moonlight, as if her skin were glowing with some sort of inner luminescence.
“Yes, I remember,” she managed.
“I think I love your hips and your arse most of all.” The emotion in his voice was unmistakable. “But then I remember your breasts and how much I love them. I love every bitable, lush, delicious curve, Olivia, including those you haven’t let me touch or kiss yet.”
Until this moment, Olivia had been holding her body rigid, her thighs tight, her stomach pulled in. Now, slowly, she relaxed, watching him. Quin couldn’t lie. She knew that; she had told Georgie that. She believed it.
The lust on his face, the way he was touching her, almost reverently, bending his head, now, kissing her greedily . . . That was the truth.
“Succulent,” he murmured.
“You make me sound like a roast chicken.”
“Ripe and plump and delicious. Soft.”
She shook her head. “Those are not the words a woman wants to hear from a man looking at her thighs.” But she was feeling better, and they both knew it.
“Georgie does not have grasshopper legs,” she said, poking him to make sure that he’d heard her. What he was doing now was going to make her collapse in a boneless heap, but she had to make sure he understood that one thing. “She has elegant, slender legs that any woman would love to have.”
He looked down at her, eyes predatory, those big hands holding her. “Not my woman. Not you.”
Olivia was about to defend her sister again, but he pulled her legs open and put his mouth on her, on that part of her.
She went rigid again for a second, long enough for a rough lap and a sweet lick, a finger stroking where a tongue had just been, a . . .
And then she forgot about Georgie. Forgot her own name. Forgot everything except the man who drove her further into a firestorm with every lick. She couldn’t stop twisting, or suppress the moans leaving her throat, one after another, undignified, guttural, animal.
Quin’s hands were everywhere, touching her, adoring her, sliding under her and biting into her bottom, then soothing the little pain, sliding around her thighs, making it clear that every silky inch met with his satisfaction, finally inching up, parting her folds, one finger going . . . there.
Olivia stiffened again, a broken moan coming from her lips.
“You’re so tight,” Quin muttered. “That’s it, Olivia. Now.” One last rough lick, one twist of that clever finger . . .
The part of her that was Olivia—smart, wry, wordplay-loving—was swallowed up by a wave of pleasure so acute that her body twisted, arched in a silent scream that matched the one coming from her lips.
Quin reared over her, caught her mouth in a wild kiss, pulled her into just the right position and thrust . . .
It was the tail end of that red-hot blindness, the utter rending