Blood Fire (3 page)

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Authors: Sharon Page

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Blood Fire
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“Then relax and enjoy,” he murmured. He turned his attention to her left breast. His arms, the closeness of his body kept her trapped. But this time, he was gentle. His lips lightly kissed and teased her nipple until it was plump as a thimble. He nibbled her breast, but only with his lips, so it felt like silk skimming over her skin. The most delicious sensations rocketed through her.
She sagged against his mouth. Her arms slid around his neck. He had a strong neck and straight shoulders. She let her fingers coast along his upper back. His skin was velvet-smooth. Slightly damp from heat and sweat. His muscles were powerful and hard. She focused on his partial nakedness, rather than the fact that
she
was completely undressed.
Then his hand slid up her inner thigh, and she squeaked in shock.
He sucked her nipple with more force, making her moan. Her legs melted even more, but she didn’t fall. She couldn’t, because he was cupping her private parts and holding her up.
The pressure of his hand there was amazing. He pushed up with the heel of his hand, rubbing deeply against her. The hoarsest groan she’d ever heard fell from her lips. Followed by sobs. She throbbed between her thighs, yet she wanted him to rub
harder.
Needing it, desperate for it, she arched against his hand. Oh God, yes. It felt so good to move rhythmically against him. He accommodated her by increasing the pressure.
Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she sucked in harsh breaths. Never had she even dreamed it could feel like this. Under her bedcovers, she’d given herself pleasure with tentative touches. Sutcliffe’s hands behaved quite differently. He cupped her right breast now, while rhythmically sucking her left nipple. His fingers stroked the wet lips between her thighs. He touched her lightly, but she was close to screaming with delight.
Pictures were lovely to fantasize over. The real earl was proving to be spectacular.
He stopped licking her nipple, and she almost cried out with shock.
Don’t stop. Please don’t.
But she didn’t have the courage to voice the demand.
“Can I make you come, my dear, with just my fingers?”
“Come where?” she whispered dazedly.
His fingers moved, parting her nether lips. She gasped as a flood of warmth seemed to wash from her.
“You’re soaking wet,” he muttered hoarsely. His voice was terse, but she did not think it was a bad thing. The sound of it sent shivers of pleasure down her spine.
She gazed up at his eyes—blue eyes, but they were so bright with lust, she could barely see the color.
His fingers moved, sliding up between her damp curls until he found the sensitive place. Softly, he brushed his fingers there, and she was shaking like a leaf. Then he pressed harder, as he’d done with the heel of his hand.
“Oh—oh no,” she began. “No, stop.”
“In this, trust me, love.” He whispered it with hot breath by her ear.
She tried. She did. Making fists, Octavia waited and let him stroke that place that brought so much sensation. She knew how to touch herself; she did it gently, with teasing brushes that led to explosions.
He was much more forceful. Probably because he was male. They were rougher in everything. She was aching and close, but tension kept the pleasure away. Tantalizingly close, but not quite there.
Then, his touch lightened, and he murmured, “I’ll stay still. You move my hand as you wish.”
She throbbed with yearning. Inside she was all coiled up and ready to burst. But weren’t they supposed to wait? “Not yet though?” she whispered tentatively. “Shouldn’t I wait until we’re together in the bed?”
“One now.” He laughed gently. “It will make my thrusts all the more delightful.”
One
now?
She hadn’t known there could be more. He seemed to think so. She hadn’t even given him her name, but she felt so close to him. The intimacy was breathtaking.
Her fists flailed, bumping his neck, but he didn’t appear to mind. Wonderful feelings grew inside. There was agony, too, but in a good way. How that made sense, she didn’t know. She knew real pain from her illness. This was an ache, but a glorious one.
“Yes,” Sutcliffe encouraged her, but the word came rough, bitten-off. Then, softly, “Pleasure yourself.”
Octavia had to close her eyes. This was what she did beneath the covers in her own bed. Not in front of a man she’d watched lecture in front of a crowded room. She moved against him, thinking he would stay still. But he didn’t. Once she had rocked back and forth, panting and feeling pleasure build, he began rubbing her. Matching her rhythm.
She couldn’t reach the peak standing up, could she?
It didn’t matter what she wanted, what she thought she could do. Her body ached for more. Her legs rocked of their own volition. She went faster and faster.
Sutcliffe helped her, spreading his fingers, rubbing them along the sides of the mysterious nub that felt so good.
She was going to melt. Or go up in flames.
She was clinging to him and sobbing and moaning. Her hips rocked like wild. She was going to dissolve in front of him, or die. He was watching her breasts jiggle and bob. He could see her at her most intimate moment. . . .
She didn’t care. It was too good.
Then . . . oh God . . . pleasure exploded inside her. Her body rocked with it, and she would have lost her balance, but her fists were pressed to his chest. He caught her mouth in a kiss, his tongue playing with hers. She couldn’t kiss him back. All she could do was moan and cry out against his mouth.
The peak buffeted her, and she rode it with her eyes shut. She was riding on his hand, and it was the most scandalous, delicious thing.
He gave a soft groan, a gentle laugh at her squeals and cries and sobs.
Shared pleasure was wonderful. Much better than being alone and making up fantasies.
Then he set her on her feet. “Get into bed, love.”
It was both soft suggestion and harsh command. On shaky legs, she obeyed. The house belonged to a duke, and even though it was a second home meant for his parties and orgies, the bedroom was a beautiful room. An enormous bed stood in the middle of it, topped with a soaring bed canopy of tasseled silk. Pillows were mounded upon a soft, embroidered coverlet.
Octavia glanced back at Sutcliffe as she approached the bed. He hooked his thumbs in the waist of his trousers and pushed them down. She had dreamed of seeing him naked. She had just thrashed around in ecstasy against his chest. But she felt far too shy to stare at his completely nude body.
She tugged at the counterpane. Tugged and tugged until she pulled it free. Then she slid underneath. Her skin was on fire—but with blushes. Her legs still tingled, and she felt achy between her legs. She had never brought herself to that intense, climactic moment more than once.
She didn’t feel tired, though. She wanted more.
Sutcliffe had stepped out of his trousers. He threw them over a chair. Long, relaxed strides brought him to the bed. Octavia peeked at him from beneath the covers. She’d drawn them up, over her nose.
This was the body she had drooled over for weeks. It was glorious to watch him move, to watch his lean legs casually swallow up the distance between them. Each step made the muscles of his thighs bunch, then relax. His stomach was flat, beautiful defined with bands of strong muscle. He had lean hips. His arms were undeniably strong, with taut, hard forearms, and bulges that brushed his chest when his arms were relaxed at his sides.
And the rest . . . the privy part . . . the part depicted in the naughty drawing . . .
It was remarkable. It swayed as he walked, the firm head of it bobbing. Thick curls of dark brown hair surrounded it and almost obscured the sight of full, heavy ballocks dangling below. The rest of his body was so hard and firm, nothing jiggled. But his . . . his penis danced merrily as he came toward her.
He drew down the sheets. Gently, he reached down and pushed her legs apart.
It was truly going to happen. Her very first time. Sudden realization made her body tense and made her legs resist him.
“Touch me,” he commanded softly. His eyes were hot with lust, but not overly confident. His word had been both a hungry, vulnerable request and the demand of a lusty man. “Please, sweet nymph, stroke my cock.”
She hadn’t thought of touching that part of him. Shoulders, chest, back, even his buttocks—those places Octavia had imagined running her fingers over. But not down there.
She lay on the bed, completely naked to him. Yet she was afraid to reach out and . . . Well, what did she do? Rub it? Grasp it? Pull it? What would he like?
His lips curved, his white teeth flashed, but she was astonished to see his smile looked uncertain. “Touch me like this?” he asked.
Before her stunned eyes, he wrapped his large hand around the shaft of his penis. What had terrified her, he did with ease. It was obvious he had touched himself before.
He gave one long stroke of his hand along the shaft, groaning. When his palm reached the head, he squeezed. Clear fluid bubbled out.
While she stared, amazed at the things the picture hadn’t depicted—the fluid, the agonized look in his face, the shiny tautness of the head—he clasped her hand and put her palm to the hot shaft.
It pulsed gently against her skin. She tried to stroke as he had done. But her hand stuck to his skin and tugged hard. He grimaced, and she gave a stumbling apology.
She loosened her grip and slipped her hand up to the head. She squeezed but with barely any pressure. He urged her to do it harder, and Octavia obeyed, then he gave a pained squeak.
Instantly she released him. She had no idea how to deal with this appendage of his.
He fondled his ballocks, letting them spill over his fingers. Octavia stared—it was one of the most erotic things she’d ever seen, watching the soft pouch, intriguingly wrinkly, fall over his fingers. She knew it was a sensitive place, yet he was surprisingly rough. No wonder he had nipped her nipple.
She tried to fondle the soft sack and his firm testicles as he had, until he delicately moved her hand away, and she realized she’d hurt him. Wearing a wry look, he stroked her face. “You aren’t experienced, are you, love?”
“I am.” But she knew she wasn’t convincing—she’d practically injured him while fondling his private parts.
He frowned. Then he got off the bed and stood beside her.
What had happened? She’d revealed that she had lied about her experience. But did that really mean he was going to stop?
She hadn’t been any good, and obviously he didn’t want her
To her horror, a sniffle broke the sudden, awful quiet. Sutcliffe jerked his head down—he’d been staring up at the bed canopy—and he looked at her.
“You’re crying.”
Even with her mask, he knew. She was embarrassed to show her emotions so blatantly. “I wanted . . . passion. And you gave me some when you—you kissed my breasts.” Octavia winced as her cheeks caught flame again.
But this was her one night, and she wanted it to be as close to her dreams as possible. Sutcliffe was listening, so she had to explain. “You were passionate before; now you seem so cold. What have I done wrong?”
Matthew couldn’t deny her accusation. The icy guilt he had been trying to fight had swamped him as soon as he’d realized she was definitely lying.
His nameless lover might be innocent, but she was sharp and perceptive. For those last two qualities alone, he should lead her back to the ballroom and take his leave of her.
“You’ve done nothing wrong.” He couldn’t explain what had happened, why he’d drawn back. She had been gazing at him with such trust, guilt had roared up in his heart. He was responsible for his brother’s death. She was a starry-eyed innocent who probably saw him as an adventurous hero. He was no hero.
“Apparently, I have more conscience than I thought,” he said tersely. “I can’t bring myself to ruin you.”
Clutching the sheet to her, she sat up. Her chin stuck out stubbornly. “I’m dying,” she whispered. Her lip wobbled, but determination glowed in her blue eyes. “I want one wicked night with you before that happens.”

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