Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells (23 page)

“Now where shall I start?” he said, playing with her nipple. “Here? Or maybe you’d rather feel my tongue somewhere else?” His fingers trailed down her body to the juncture of her thighs, and then his hand grazed over her hip.

“Perhaps I should begin where I left off this afternoon, with a massage.” He reached down over the side of the bed, then returned with a small bottle of massage oil. He poured some into his palm and rubbed his hands together, then laid them on her sternum. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he said.

Grace shivered in anticipation, both scared and thrilled. Oh God, he was really going to touch her!

Declan glided his oiled hands over her breasts, releasing the delicate scent of almonds. She watched his face, its expression one of intent absorption as his warm, strong palms slid over her flesh, like a sculptor working in clay. His gaze flicked up to hers, his eyes dark except for the gleam of reflected candlelight.

Embarrassed, Grace closed her eyes and turned her face, tucking it against her arm. Having her eyes closed, though, was almost worse—physical sensations seemed twice as strong without visual distraction. She buried her face deeper into her arm and tried not to enjoy his touch too much. He
wouldn’t
make her say yes!

Declan moved from her chest to her arms and hands, her
torso, her legs and feet. He turned her over to do her back and her buttocks, and even to dig his fingers into the base of her skull, tempting her to release all her tension. For several minutes she forgot herself, and time lost meaning as she floated free of the world, forgetting why and where and with whom she was. Even embarrassment disappeared under the soothing, sensual touch of his hands.

He turned her onto her back again, then raised her knees and then spread them apart, making them fall to the sides like an open flower.

Grace’s eyes went wide, all the relaxation jolted out of her. “What are you doing?” she cried, as she tried to close her legs. His hands held them open, making her feel even more exposed and vulnerable.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“I don’t
want
surprises.”

His gaze searched hers, then he slowly released her knees.

She felt an almost overwhelming urge to close them, but his eyes on her were a challenge, asking if she had the courage to leave herself open to him, to play this game they had dared each other to. Her pride gave her strength, and she let her legs lay open in invitation. She would make herself obey, and let him do as he wished.

Declan gave his satyr’s grin, then grabbed a pillow and put it under her head. “I want you to be able to watch me,” he said, and then lay down beside her, his head toward her feet, his body partially propped up on the mattress by an elbow between her legs.

Again he massaged her with the almond oil, working his free hand over her abdomen, her hips, her inner thighs. There was no relaxation for her this time, only a slow building of anticipation and impatience as she waited for his touch to turn from massage to sexual caress. She wanted to groan at him,
Get to it!

When he lifted his hand away, Grace made a tiny whimper of disappointment, and then clamped her lips shut at the betraying sound.

His gaze locked with hers, and he lowered his hand to touch her. She turned her head and closed her eyes, feeling the heat of a blush.

Grace’s nerve endings felt as if they weren’t just waiting for his touch, but reaching for it.

He took her to the very edge of release, and then . . . stopped.

She shifted and tried to bite back the small noise of impatience that threatened to slip from her throat.

After several seconds he touched her again, and she inched toward the edge of bliss, her body straining, and then . . . he stopped.

She moaned softly in frustration. Enough of this teasing!

His next touch was quick and light, as sudden and fleeting as a hummingbird. Her body jerked, her eyes flying open. He was still watching her, his face deadly serious. She turned her face to her shoulder, eyes shut once more, and vowed not to open them again.

“Remember that I have the advantage of seeing how you touched yourself. And I’m determined to show you that I could do it even better.”

She began to arch her back in pleasure, then caught herself and forced herself to remain still. In this contest she could hold the advantage only if he didn’t know what she was feeling.

But, oh . . . it felt so good!

His pressure increased, his touch giving her what she wanted much too slowly. She wanted to beg him to go faster, and had to clench her jaw against the words.

Just as her frustration was verging on anger, he suddenly shifted gears and changed to a fast, flicking touch that tore a soft cry from her throat.

She could feel herself approaching the crest of her passion; she was rising swiftly toward it, carried by his touch. She pressed her hips toward him. She wanted him inside her right now, all of him, leaving no space in her for thought or emotion, just raw physical passion.

Her legs tensed, her body straining toward its goal. She was only a few heartbeats away from satisfaction, and with that knowledge a rush of triumph went through her: he’d said he would make her ask him for sex, but she hadn’t. She’d won! She would reach her peak, and then all danger of giving in to him would be gone, her passion spent!

Just one more moment . . .

He lifted his hand away.

Her eyes flew open and she whimpered in protest.
“Declan.”

The barest whisper of a smile breathed across his lips. “You don’t really think I’ll let you off so easily, do you?”

She stared at him dully, her mind foggy with lust, until she felt his touch on her inner thigh, lightly feathering along her skin exactly as he had done ten minutes earlier. As if he was going back to the beginning, to start all over.

“No . . . ,” she said softly, shaking her head.

“All you have to do is say yes,” Declan said, “and you can have what you want.”

“And if I don’t say it?”

“We have hours ahead of us. I can bring you to the brink and leave you there a hundred times, until your body is burned by its own desires. If you go to that point, you won’t be able to come at all.” He touched her lightly, and she closed her eyes and moaned. “Don’t do that to yourself just to spite me.”

“It’s not spite,” Grace gasped. “It’s to prove that not every woman wants you.”

“I don’t care what other women want, only what
you
want.” He lifted his hand away.

Grace’s body cried out in protest, but she forced herself to smile. She licked her dry lips. “Do your best. I’ll never want you inside me.”

“You already do. The only question is how long it will take for you to admit it.”

“Eternity.”

“Then you leave me no choice, and I’ll show you no mercy.”

She didn’t want mercy. All she wanted was for him to touch her again, and he did. Over and over again he brought her up to the brink and abandoned her, her hips writhing with desire she could not control. The only mastery she had was of her tongue, and she held it silent.

Even that became almost too much. She started to second-guess herself, to silently argue that this was only a game, he already knew she wanted him, why not say it and get what they both wanted?

With each round of slowly intensifying touch, it took less and less time for her to reach the brink, but always he stopped just short of sending her over. How did he
do
that? How did he know just when to stop? She started to watch herself, seeking the clues she gave away to let him know when she was about to climax. If she could send the wrong message, even for as little as a few seconds, she could throw herself over the brink before he knew what was happening.

She sensed her whole body tensing as she neared the crest, her legs stiffening, the movements of her hips more frantic as she silently screamed, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! I’m almost there!” And of course he stopped and started over.

The next round, she was ready for him. As the arousal built and she felt herself approaching the edge, she forced her body to remain at its level of tension, forced herself to pretend less passion than she felt.

Yes
, she silently whispered to herself as his touch increased in intensity.

Yes, just a little more
. She felt a strange dissociation from her body as she held control, faking relaxation when she wanted to grind herself against him.

Just a little more . . .

And then it came: one touch too many. Her body froze on the cusp, and then tumbled downward in pulsating waves of release. Her whole body tightened, her back arching, her thighs clamping together over his hand, her own hands gripping the bonds above her head.

“Got
it,” she sighed in triumph and relief.

She felt Declan remove his hands from her, and opened her eyes.

“Goddammit! You tricked me!”

A smile curled her lips. “Some of us play the game better than others.”

His eyes narrowed. “No one said the game was over.”

She smirked. “You’re the short stack of chips at this poker table, buck-o.”

“A naked woman still in handcuffs should think twice about taunting the man who put her there.”

Her glee died. “What do you mean by that? It’s over, Declan. Just admit it.”

He grabbed a pillow off the floor and coaxed her to raise her hips, sliding it beneath them. “Have you never heard of multiple orgasms?”

“Sure, but I never—”

Her words were cut short by what he did next.

“It’s not going to work,” she said weakly, even as he patiently began to coax the first shimmers of desire from her and she melted into the bed, her limbs going limp. “It
can’t
work, can it?” she asked in wonder as she felt a tingling pleasure begin to spread through her loins.

He built her passion slowly this time, with no cycles of arousal and abandonment. He switched pace and pressure, keeping her guessing, never letting her get bored.

Grace wanted it to go on forever; she wanted to reach her second relief; she wanted to feel him inside her. She wanted all of it, but mostly she wanted him to keep doing exactly what he was doing.

“Say yes, Grace.”

She imagined him coming over her, his strong body between her thighs, his manhood pushing deep within her. Below, his tongue echoed her imaginings.

For the second time, her body reached its relief, her muscles tensing as her body fell into waves of contracting pleasure.

“No! Goddammit,
no
!” Declan howled. He punched the mattress in frustration.

Grace chuckled deep in her throat, and stretched languorously. “Thank you, Declan. What does that make the score? Two—zip?”

Declan rolled off the bed and stalked round the room, running his hands through his hair in aggravation, his cock erect and woefully unsatisfied. Grace was too sated to do more than lie there smiling.

“You’re all out of tricks, aren’t you?” Grace said in mock sympathy. “Poor thing.”

Declan glared at her, his eyes wild. He muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath.

“Would you please take off the cuffs? My arms are going stiff,” she said softly.

He sighed and unlocked the cuffs. Then he pulled the sheet over Grace and crawled in behind her. He pulled her into his arms, spooning her from behind.

“I guess that was something to write home about,” Grace whispered drowsily.

Declan closed his eyes, pressed his face into her hair, and pulled her more tightly against himself, his arm between her breasts, his body protectively cupping the warm softness of hers. She was much smaller than he was, but her curves gave her enough solidity that he didn’t fear crushing her. There was something deeply comforting about holding her.

He wasn’t a man to analyze sex—far from it—but he dimly recognized that something important and unexpected had happened here tonight. Grace had challenged him in a way he had never experienced, and had held her own against all he could throw at her. It wasn’t just sexual, either; it had been a mental and emotional game they had played with each other.

All this, from Grace.
Grace!
The insecure Women’s Studies student in a fish T-shirt!

She wasn’t who he’d thought she was. She was a vixen, full of tricks and temptations, and motives he couldn’t fathom. She was like . . .
like a young Sophia
.

His eyes opened, his body stiffening. His long-standing wish to meet a younger version of Sophia had come true. People always said to be careful what you wished for—now he understood why.

Grace was a young Sophia but scarier; she was a sex monster who came across as a virgin. And she loathed him. She hid it, but there were moments when he’d catch the anger in her eyes and know that he might never be forgiven for how he’d treated her the first night.

A sick sense came to him that he had burned a bridge he would come to regret. He may have lost the woman of his dreams.

He buried his nose in Grace’s hair, inhaling the damp, earthy remnants of passion. She had set her sights on the passionless Andrew Pritchard. Andrew would never be able to meet her needs, but Grace thought she wanted him, for whatever reason.

Jealousy burned like acid.

So why the hell was Grace playing sexual games with him? She must have reasons of her own, of which he had not a clue. He had thought he was in control of their relationship, but he suspected now that Grace had used his self-assurance against him and was holding the reins all along.

“What the hell are you up to?” he whispered into her hair.

There was no answering murmur. His redheaded vixen was sound asleep.

CHAPTER

17