Sylvie heard a low keening sound, and at first thought it was the background singers on the CD. To her embarrassment, she realized the continuous whimper was coming from her.
Luc was lowering his head to minister to her aching breasts. When he took one breast into his mouth and began to suckle, she dug her nails into his shoulders and cried aloud with one long squeal, “Luuuuuuuucccccc!”
He stopped, and she thought he was going to take mercy on her. But she could see by his beautiful sex-hazed eyes and moist, parted lips that he would not. He was even further gone than she was. With a low masculine growl of pleasure, he attacked the other breast, bringing it to an equal pitch of throbbing need.
Sylvie was mindless with passion, and therefore unaware of Luc making quick work of removing her slacks and panties. It was only when the rasp of his zipper rang loud to her ears that she realized she had come full circle. Luc was going to get from her what he had no doubt always wanted… what she had promised… nude dancing. He had won, finally.
And she did not care.
Where was the shyness that had always been the bane of Sylvie’s life? Why was she not mortified to be naked and exposed to a man’s thorough scrutiny? Who was this alien, uninhibited woman who had taken over Sylvie’s body?
When he took her in his arms to dance now, she relished the rasp of his chest hairs against her breasts, the whisk of his thigh hairs against her smooth legs, the press of her own hair against his raging erection. It was a dance like none she’d ever experienced before, or ever conceived possible.
It was sinful and soulful.
It was tender and raw.
It was lust and something she refused to name.
It was Luc as she, in her secret self, had always imagined he would be.
When he groaned and whispered her name in a pleading way, Sylvie arched her back and smiled. She was woman, and Luc was man, and, oh, what a wonderful, wonderful combination that was.
Somehow she found herself danced against the table, then pressed backward till she lay flat on her back with her legs dangling over the side. Wasting no time, Luc grabbed her knees, adjusting them so that her bottom was at the edge of the table and her legs flung wide. Holding her eyes, Luc pressed his palm against her and rotated. “So wet,” he murmured with appreciation. “Thank you, Sylv.”
“For what?” she choked out.
“For wanting me this much.” His voice was hoarse with emotion and barely audible. He separated her folds with two fingers, stroked her once, twice, three times, then brought his fingers out and up to show her the moistness.
She turned her face away in embarrassment.
He forced her face back to look at him, then put the two fingertips to his lips and made long, erotic laps with his tongue over the wetness.
Sylvie’s eyes went wide with surprise and a little bit of fear. Luc LeDeux was not going to be a genteel lover. He was going to be primitive and crude and rough, as he was in regular life, and he was going to demand the same of her.
But she had no time to dwell on that. Luc had dropped to his knees between her legs and was doing things with his expert tongue that would make a saint cry. She tried to rise up off the table, but he would not allow that. Instead, he plied her with fingertips, and tongue, and teeth till she was thrashing from side to side. While he worked that most sensitive part of her with his firm tongue, he moaned a continuous “Uhmmmmmmmmm, uhmmmmmrnmmm, uhmmmmmmmmm…” which caused his tongue to vibrate against her and ripple inside her body up to her aching breasts.
Sylvie couldn’t see her toes, but she was fairly certain they were curled. And her hands were clenching the sides of the table with white-knuckled intensity.
Enough! she finally thought. I can’t take much more of this. Drawing on unknown reserves of strength, she reared up, shimmied her tush toward the middle of the table, and grabbed his hair in both hands, pulling him up toward her. If he wouldn’t let her down, then he was coming up.