Uncommon Pleasure by Anne Calhoun Page A

bra?”
    “I’d given up on you,” she admitted. “This is what I sleep in.”
    “I shouldn’t have come,” he said, almost to himself.
    “Why not?”
    He didn’t answer, stroking the sides of her breasts with the backs of his curled fingers. The promise of his touch hardened her nipples, as did his focused gaze.
    “What’s with the mirror?” she asked, her voice soft, high-pitched as she sank into the scenario.
    “I’m a man,” he said absently. “We like to watch.”
    He lifted her shirt over her head to catch at her elbows, then flattened his palms on her collarbone and swept them down, rasping her nipples, her abdomen, again, again, again, until she was arching into each stroke, desperate for the rough contact. Herbreasts heated, grew heavy at the rough touch of his palms, and when he pinched her nipples, her bones seemed to dissolve into her blood, running as thick and lazy as warm honey. Sensation pooled between her thighs, turned her hot and liquid.
    His gaze followed his hands as he cupped her breasts and plucked at the nipples, stroked down to the edge of her shorts. Her lips parted, and she arched into his hands. She whimpered, and he slid his hand under the elastic waist of her shorts to circle her clit with the tip of his middle finger. The movements were obscured by the fabric, but glowed on her mental map of her body. The touch was rhythmic, light, close enough to the bundle of nerves to make her thigh muscles tremble and her eyes drop closed, but not close enough to do more than maintain her on a simmer.
    Her leg rose as she sought a way to shift into his hand, but he followed the movements with ease, and the hot snares of frustrated desire tightened around her. The hand not occupied with her clit rose back to her breasts, where he stroked the soft underswell of one, plucked at the nipple, pinched it before repeating the pattern at her other breast.
    She arched away from him, then sank back against his hard body, unthinkingly jerking at the restraints. The soft leather, warmed from their shared body heat, gave not an inch as the snap hook held firm.
    “Want more?”
    “Yes,” she whimpered.
    “Too bad.”
    She let her head drop back against his shoulder and pressed down hard against his erection.
    “It really works for me when you squirm like that,” he said. He lightly bit down on the curve where her shoulder met her neck. “It works for you, too, doesn’t it? You like not being in control.”
    She tried to sit up, even get her feet flat on the floor to get some leverage, but he just widened his stance. “A gentleman wouldn’t mention that,” she gasped.
    “You sized me up for four days, Lauren. You knew what you were getting.”
    Another firmer bite on her neck, then he set his teeth and tongue to work on the nape, ratcheting up the tantalizing pressure between her legs. Shivers raced down her back, counterpoint to the heat building in her breasts. A gasp slipped from her throat.
    She felt his bared teeth against her nape. “So fucking hot.”
    The tilted angle of his head sent his blond hair tumbling into his face, but she could see his eyes plain as day when he looked up from her body and met her gaze in the mirror. Tiny, secret, electric movements around her clit, sometimes closing the circle and drawing a pleading gasp from her throat, always widening again while she arched and writhed. A fine sweat gleamed on her face and body, her hair clinging to her mouth and collarbone as he drew the tension out into sexual torture.
    “Please, oh please,” she whispered.
    “I’m gonna get mine, right?”
    Electric shock straight to the brain. “Yes,” she said.
Anything.
She’d promise anything.
    With the pad of his middle finger he stroked her swollen clit, the pressure firm, relentless. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, her body drawing into a taut bow anchored by her head against his shoulder and her ass grinding into the cradle of his hips. The build was as hot