Behind the Courtesan’s Mask by Marguerite Kaye Read Free Book Online Page B

spilled from her belly down to her sex. “Troy.” His name, the shape of desire. “I don’t want you to stop,” she said, and turned around in his arms.
    His kisses were all she remembered and more. Sweeter. Softer. Gentler. His tongue caressed. His lips sought to know. And to rouse. He kissed her slowly, luxuriating in the taste of her. Her dress gave way with only a little struggle. Blushing, she stood before him in her simple white chemise, her unadorned corset and plain stockings.
    â€œConstance,” he said, “you are utterly beautiful and completely irresistible.” Then he kissed her again, tugging loose the strings of her mask, dropping the fringed whip, and it was there as before, the flaring, white-hot sheet of passion, and she was aching for him, wanting this time to see every bit of him, tugging at his trouser buttons and ripping at his shirt so frantically that he laughed, and quickly discarded them himself.
    Naked, muscled and hugely erect, he stood before her, laughing still, but nervous too, which was unlike him. But this was all so unlike him. It mattered. She ran her fingers over his shoulders. His arms. Her palms caressed the dip and swell of his chest, his abdomen, his flanks, fleetingly brushing the tip of his erection. Dear God, but he was ready. More than ready. “Wait,” he said harshly. “Wait. This time I want to show you—just wait.”
    He kissed her reverently. He unlaced her carefully, kissing the wings of her shoulder blades, each knot of her spine. He kissed the delightful cleft of her buttocks as he rolled her chemise down, and then rolled her pantaloons down too. White cotton. Who would have thought that white cotton could be so arousing? She stood before him now in just her stockings, tied with white ribbons. A goddess of a woman. Her nipples hard, dark pink. Her mouth dark pink. Her hair fiery. Her eyes slumberous. He ran his hands over her curves, letting his mouth follow the swell of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the dip into her navel. She moaned, and he kissed the inside of her thighs, satin soft. Gently, he pulled her down onto the floor, to lie in the mounds of discarded satin and lace. Gently, he spread her legs, wanting to give her what he was certain now no one else had, wanting to worship her as he was certain now he would never want to worship another.
    â€œNow it is time for the other kisses we talked about,” he said hoarsely, before moving down, to plunge his tongue into that darker, sweeter, moister heat.
    Constance jerked in surprise, just as he had known she would. “Hush,” he said, stilling her, stroking her thighs, kissing her belly. “Hush,” he said as she relaxed back under his touch, and he licked again into her sex. “Let me savor you.”
    She could feel the caress of silk on her bottom. Silk too where his lips—and his tongue—touched her so intimately, so unbearably gently. Four days ago she thought she had hit the very heights of passion, today she was already on a higher plateau. He wanted her, he cared about her pleasure as much as his, but more important, she knew for certain that it was she he desired. Constance. Not anyone else. Her, and her alone.
    His caress was languorous. She felt weighted, heavy. And hot. And now restless, as his tongue flicked and circled and she grew hot then cold then hot, felt as if he was winding her tight. She moaned, clutched at his hair, arched under him, wanting, waiting. His touch gained focus. She thought she would break with the strain of clutching tight. He kissed her sex deeply, his fingers plunging inside her at the same time, reaching high inside her, and she came with a crashing, smashing, earth-shattering force that made her scream with pleasure, scream his name over and over, bucking under him, with an abandon that made the first time seem tame.
    Breathless, flying, soaring, yet she still wanted more. Not his mouth. Not