She felt… beautiful. Her breasts were beautiful, the slight roundness of her stomach, the full breadth of her hips. Each part he worshipped in turn. He kissed the gentle projection of her ribs and ran his tongue in teasing circles around her navel. All the while she felt him drawing closer to the place that begged for his attentions. Her breath rang hoarse and loud in her own ears.
He paused, giving her brief deliverance from the high pitch of excitement. Yet she didn’t want him to stop.
“Please,” she murmured.
“You aren’t afraid?” he asked again. His voice was just as unsteady as hers. “I can slow down, if you like.”
“No,” she answered, half in a daze. “No.”
“It was a very foolish question.” He took her hips between his hands and kissed his way down her body again.
The first touch of his tongue to her femininity was a considerable shock. She felt as if she’d been struck by lightning, every volt of it focused on this one part of her body. She thought she might die in the next few seconds.
She didn’t die. Quentin was an expert. He pushed his tongue into the soft, moist flesh, stroking and exploring. She clutched handfuls of sheet in her fists, wondering how she could bear it. How any woman could. And to think that some male physicians actually believed that females could or should not know this… this ecstasy.
A moan escaped her. Quentin’s caresses became more urgent, as if he were propelling her toward the climax he’d promised she would recognize. Surely she was already there. But the feeling of sheer pleasure became one of rising, rising toward some immeasurable height, a Valhalla that only the blessed could know.
Quentin led her there, drew her to the edge, and then let her go.
She exploded, tumbled, spun to the bottom in a rush of light and joy. Quentin was waiting for her. She felt herself pulse against his mouth while he reveled in her delight.
Every limb weighted with gratified exhaustion, Johanna rested her head on the pillow and let the overwhelming sensations fade. At last she knew what it was to reach the ultimate physical completion. The feelings Quentin had aroused in her when he’d touched her breasts were nothing compared to this. She couldn’t help giggling a little at her own naïveté.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you giggle before,” Quentin said, rolling onto his back beside her. “You found it acceptable?”
“Acceptable? You can ask that when—” She paused, noting the gleam of bedevilment in his eye. The hopeless rogue. She reached for his hand. “More than acceptable.”
“I am glad.” He propped himself up on his elbow to gaze at her. “You have a certain natural talent yourself.”
“But I’ve done nothing. It has been quite—one-sided, has it not?”
Quentin licked his lips. “I found it very pleasant, I assure you.”
“But you have not—we have not finished.” Even as she spoke, she felt a renewed ache between her thighs—the ache of emptiness, of a powerful need to be filled in a way only Quentin could do.
“Not everything must be done at once,” he said. “We aren’t on a schedule, are we?”
He was putting her off, she was sure of it. In spite of his initial acquiescence, he hadn’t let go of his qualms. He held back from the ultimate expression of the desire she knew he felt. The bold stance of his admirable, rather awesome male part had not diminished in the slightest.
She sat up and slid her hand down his belly. “Maybe not,” she said. “But now it is my turn.”
“You needn’t—” He gulped back his words as she reached the base of his manhood and stroked up with one finger. He was so hard, so silky, and so very fascinating.
“I have seen this before, of course,” she said in her best professional voice, “but never one so, so… superior.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I think.”
“And never in this state, I must confess.” She wrapped her hand around him and drew it up and down experimentally. His body jerked. “How long can you maintain it, I wonder?”