Lost in Pleasure by Marguerite Kaye Read Free Book Online Page A

floating on a pink, fluffy cloud of ecstasy. It was a place she
could float forever were he to continue with his gentle teasing, but he did not.
His tongue unerringly found the hard nub of her arousal, and he kissed her there
too. The soft cloud turned from coral to cerise to carmine, and her climax
rocked her so violently and suddenly that she cried out, clutched at his hair,
his shoulders, calling his name over and over and over.
    He left her no time to recover. The long, slow onslaught had
taken its toll on his own self-control. He was hard and achingly ready. Wrapping
her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, Richard lifted her from the
chaise, perched her on the edge of a Hepplewhite half-moon table that stood
against the wall panelling and entered her with one long, slow stroke. He closed
his eyes and breathed, his erection gently pulsing in her, feeling her pulsing
around him too. This, her, this is what he wanted. He would not let her go. Not
yet. Not now. He slowly withdrew, then thrust again. This. How could she not
want this?
    He kissed her, thrusting his tongue deep into the warm cavern
of her mouth, aware in the recesses of his mind that he was surrendering to base
instinct, to stake his claim, to possess, to mark. The logical part of him noted
this primal behaviour, noted with surprise that he was even capable of it. But
even as it did, Richard banished the thought. He withdrew, thrust, kissed,
relishing the slick wet, the clinging silken heat of her, resisting his retreat,
opening up to welcome him back inside her. Her mouth, too, pliant and welcoming
and clinging. Her hands on his buttocks, her legs around his waist, and still it
was not enough. His need to possess her was tangible.
    Errin was beyond thinking. She could only feel. Richard inside
her, stretching her, filling her, pushing high and hard and thick into her. She
heard the little grunt of his pleasure as he thrust, heard her answering whimper
as she gripped, felt the onslaught of another climax, heard him moan as she
reached behind to caress him. His rhythm was fast and focused now, taking her
with him to a furious place where they must climb and grasp and reach for
something that they found together, suddenly, abruptly, unbelievably. They rode
the wave of ecstasy together until they tumbled, spent and sated, and clung to
each other as the receding ripples of their passion lapped around them.
    * * *
    He did not let her go. He would not let her go. Still
holding her, he laid them both down on the rug by the fire, nestling her close,
so close they felt they inhabited one skin. He stroked her fiery hair, smoothing
it, pressing kisses to her brow, whispering her name over and over, as if saying
it would, like some magic incantation, make her stay.
    ‘Richard,’ she said, for she could think of nothing and no one
else, for she too wanted to use his name as a talisman against loss. ‘Richard,
Richard, Richard.’ She pressed herself closer, feeling the rough hairs of his
thighs on her own smooth limbs, the rough hairs of his chest on her cheek, the
weight of his manhood, still damp from their lovemaking, lying against her
thigh. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Then his throat. Then another to his
chest, the delightful hollow between his pectoral muscles, then the flat, salty
taste of his nipples. She kissed as he had, tasting and imprinting him on her
tongue, working her way down his body, over his body, back up, by which time he
was hard again, thick and pulsing again, and she took him in her mouth and
kissed there too. The length of his shaft. Kissing down, licking round, then
taking him gradually into her mouth, sucking and licking until he came, bucking
under her as she had bucked under him. An act of adoration. Of devotion. Of
worship. She knew it was. She had never done it before, nor been able to
understand the pleasure until now of purely giving.
    An act of love. And her next and final act of love must be her
leaving forever. With