He grabbed the blanket at her shoulder and gently, slowly lowered it all the way to her knees, teasing himself as her splendor was fully revealed inch by tantalizing inch. He smiled to himself when he saw that her nipples were, indeed, puckered and tight. What sorts of erotic journeys did an innocent like Francesca take in her sleep? His gaze flickered and stuck on the trim, strawberry-blond thatch of hair between her white thighs. Was that moisture gleaming in the slit? Surely it was his imagination . . . wishful thinking after hours of torturous arousal.
He spread his hand over the smooth expanse of her flat belly. She said that she’d been overweight as a child, but he could see no evidence of it. Losing the weight so young must have saved her from stretch marks. Her skin looked flawless. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her face tightening momentarily, before she sighed and sunk back into slumber. His hand lowered across her satiny, warm skin. He reached, sliding his finger into that silky hair, burrowing it between those sex lips that had been haunting him night after night.
He grunted in satisfaction. It hadn’t been his imagination. Her juices coated his finger. He moved, finding her clit, teasing it with his fingertip, calling her to him from the realms of her dreams. He spread his hand for a moment over her outer sex, arousal stabbing at his cock. Things were warm, wet, and divine in the crevice.
His gaze was on her face when she opened her eyes. For a second, they just stared at each other as he stimulated her clit with his finger. He watched as fresh color rushed into her cheeks and full lips.
“Is this what you wanted me available for?” she muttered, her voice low and thick with sleep.
“Perhaps. I can’t stop thinking about your pussy. I’m looking forward to spending as much time as possible buried in it.” He flicked her clit with extra pressure, and watched, fascinated, as she gasped and bit her fleshy lower lip. Christ. He was going to kill himself feasting on her. She was a never-ending orgy of delight all encapsulated in one gorgeous, fascinating woman.
“Roll onto your back,” he said, his finger still plucking and stroking between her creamy labia, his gaze intent on her face as he tightly examined her subtle reactions to his manipulations, gauging her . . . learning her. His hand moved with her as she lay on her back. “Now spread your legs. I want to look at you,” he instructed gruffly.
She widened her slender thighs. His gaze fixed between her legs, he reached for the control panel, lowering the footrest of her recliner. He knelt before her, his body between her spread knees. He removed his hand and stared at her sex, utterly spellbound.
“I usually ask women to shave for me,” he said. “It increases the sensitivity. Makes a woman totally available to me.”
“Is that what you’d like me to do?” she asked. His gaze zoomed up to her face. Her dark, velvety eyes shone with arousal.
“I don’t want you to change a thing. You have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. I may be demanding, but even I know better than to mess with perfection.”
Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. He reached and used his fingers to widen her sex lips, exposing glistening dark pink folds and the tiny slick opening to her vagina. His cock lurched viciously, knowing precisely where it wanted to be at that moment. He longed to push his tongue into that hole as well, to have her juices sliding down his throat. He craved it.
But if he tasted her, he’d take her, there and now. That was a certainty.
He reluctantly rose and sat again next to her on the wide seat of the lounger. He leaned down and kissed her parted lips lightly as he resumed stroking her clit.
“Does this feel good?” he asked, his gaze running over her flushed face.
“Yes,” she whispered, the fervency of her response convincing him as much as her pink-stained lips, cheeks, and heaving breasts. He flicked at her clit, giving it a rapid, gentle, back-and-forth lashing with the ridge of his forefinger. She gasped, and he smiled. She was so wet that he could hear himself moving in her creamy flesh.
“You’re so responsive. I can’t wait to see what heights of pleasure I can evoke out of your beautiful body.”
He rubbed her clit hard, pulsing her.
“Oh . . . Ian,” she moaned, twisting her hips, lifting her pelvis against his hand to increase the pressure.
“It’s all right, lovely,” he whispered next to her mouth, plucking at her lips as she panted. “I grant you what I deny myself for now. Come against my hand.”
He watched, raging in an inferno of arousal, as the tension in her sleek, soft body broke, and she cried out in pleasure. He smelled it—the unique perfume that rose off her skin when she climaxed. Unable to stop himself, he seized her mouth with his own, silencing her whimpers almost angrily, slaking his thirst on her sweetness.
When her shudders of orgasm finally quieted, he tore his mouth from hers and buried his head in the crook of her shoulder and neck, panting nearly as much as she was. After a moment, he acknowledged that he wouldn’t be able to quiet his raging erection while inhaling her intoxicating scent.
He straightened and rose, walking back over to his lounger.
“We’ll be arriving in Paris soon,” he murmured, tapping his keyboard and noticing that the finger he’d used to make her come still gleamed with her abundant juices. He closed his eyes briefly to shut out the arousing image. It lingered, seemingly burned into the back of his shut eyelids. “Why don’t you go into the bedroom, wash up, and change.”
“Change?” she asked.
He nodded and dared to look at her naked beauty flushed from climax. Christ, she was beautiful: the dark eyes of a nymph, the pale, soft skin of an Irish maid, the lithe, voluptuous body of a Roman goddess. He resisted a nearly imperative, dark urge to pounce and sink his cock into the heaven of her like some kind of wild animal.