“And I would rather like to kiss your leg,” she said, wondering in some part of her mind whether she’d gone mad.
“You—” he said.
“Yes?”
“You will do anything to win, won’t you?”
She grinned at that. “I’m very competitive. Did you think you were the only one?”
“Not anymore,” he muttered and then finally, finally, bent his head to hers.
A trace of brine lingered on his lips. And his kiss was pure Piers: rough and demanding, without a trace of civility. Linnet felt as if she were the slave girl again, lying at the feet of her master. No, not at his feet, since her whole body was thrilling to the weight of him.
Lying under her master, submitting to his—
“Bloody hell,” Piers said, lifting his mouth and glaring at her. “Why do I feel as if I’m making love to a rag doll here? You seemed to know how to kiss yesterday.”
She pulled her hands free and wrapped her arms around his neck. “We’re not making love.”
“Right. Let’s go back to my initial comment, stripped of the love part. Why am I bothering to kiss a limp—”
She stifled a groan. “Shut up, Piers.”
Their eyes met for a single, electric moment. Then his eyes darkened, and his mouth took hers again.
She tossed the slave girl idea, and just concentrated on the way he tasted: hot and male. The feeling of hard body lying on top of her. The way he was devouring her, the way she was kissing him back.
Kissing him made her body melt under his, and her hands move down his back, tracing his muscles, the way his back curved to his waist, stopping short at the tablecloth.
He was nudging his leg forward, between her legs, and the shirt—what happened to her shirt? It must have . . .
Piers broke free of her mouth and trailed his lips in a burning caress across the line of her jaw.
Linnet looked blindly at the ceiling, her senses flooded by the touch and smell of him. He was pushing the shirt even higher, which meant that she could feel more of him, more hot skin against hers.
His head dipped lower, and a groan tore from his chest. “Damn, Linnet, you have the sweetest breasts I’ve ever—”
She didn’t hear what he said because he had her breast in his hand, and his mouth on her nipple. It felt lovely, intoxicating and—he suckled. She gasped. Or perhaps screamed. Or that was too hoarse for a scream. She shouldn’t be making noises like that, she should—
“Stop it,” he said, raising his head, rearing over her and looking down into her eyes.
“Don’t stop,” she begged.
“You started thinking again. You went all rigid.”
“No.” She drew her fingers over his chest, just as she’d imagined, over the broad muscles, and the flat bronze nipples. “You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re cracked if you think so,” he said flatly. Her fingers brushed over one of his nipples, and a ragged sound came from his throat. She did it again, more firmly. His neck dropped back, which gave her room to slide down and put her mouth where her fingers had been.
She could feel him shaking, so she tried this and that . . . licking, even a little bite. Anything that got him to throb against her. Half her mind was on him, and half was on the way she felt every time he bucked against her.
“Enough,” he said, rolling off her onto his back and bringing her with him.
“Your leg!” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I—”
He thrust a knee between her legs. The words died in her mouth. Every sensation in her body focused on the sweet spot between her legs. “Oh,” she moaned. “Please . . .”
Dimly she heard him chuckle, but his lips were on her nipple again, feasting, licking, tasting. Moving to the other nipple, suckling there until she was pulsing against his leg, crying out.
She braced herself against his shoulders, eyes closed.
“Want to come?” he said, his voice raspy and low.
His thumb rubbed across her nipple again, and she moaned.
“I think I could make you come just from this,” he said.
Linnet caught his voice, the detached, physician tone, and knew what he was doing. She leaned over and bit his lip. “You’re being an idiot again.”
“Why?” He played with her breasts, making her shake.
“Observing,” she gasped. “You do it when you’re uncomfortable. Oh!”
“I’m not uncomfortable. Neither are you.” A hand slid down her stomach to between her legs. He nudged her backward. “Though I think I could make you a good deal more comfortable.”
Linnet’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out. She quivered all over. “More comfortable on your back,” he said, flipping her over as easily as if she were a pancake. “More comfortable, if I kiss you here—” He put his mouth to her breast “—while I touch you here.” His fingers dipped back between her legs, coaxing, caressing.
Linnet didn’t know whether he was observing her. She hardly noticed when his mouth left her breast and trailed down her stomach. What he was doing with his hand was making her twist, her hips bucking against his fingers, hoarse moans flying from her lips.
But then he pushed her legs wider.
She raised her head, dazed, to see his dark head between her legs. “What are you doing?” she cried, trying to push herself away. “That’s—what—stop it!”
Too late. His lips turned to the sweet curve of her inner thigh. A tongue trailed delicately, closer and closer.
“You smell so good,” he said dreamily. “Essence of Linnet along with a touch of the ocean. And you taste . . .”
She gasped.
“You taste like the sweetest honey.” He turned back to what he was doing. He shoved her knees up, and his tongue claimed her, took her, threw her into the fire. Her head turned from side to side, and she strained against him, crying out, over and over, with each soft stroke.
A finger thrust inside her, and she broke, screaming so loud that she heard only the sound of her own pleasure, rather than the wind.
Then she heard the wind again, but also the whisper of Piers’s voice as he kissed her, very gently. “Oh so delicate,” he said, crooning. “Such good working order.”
“You’re diagnosing me!” she said, managing to pry her head off the pillow so she could look down at him.
He looked up at her, the devil in his eyes. “I’m diagnosing the pinkest—” he dropped another kiss, and she quivered again—“sweetest”—another kiss—“most delectable part of Linnet.”
Chapter Eighteen
Linnet scooted backward, pushing herself up against the headboard. Piers let his hands fall away from her legs, and she pulled her knees together, against her chest, reflexively thinking to cover her most intimate parts.
She could hardly believe that she had allowed such a thing to happen. Her stomach was curdling with embarrassment. “That was very improper,” she stated, apportioning some of the blame to him. “I’m sure that people don’t—where did you learn to do such a thing?”
“How would you know what people do or don’t do?” Piers rolled over on his side and propped his head up on one hand. “As a doctor, I can tell you that they get up to all sorts of things that you and I haven’t tried yet. Has anyone ever instructed you as regards the proprieties and improprieties of the bedchamber?”