To Bed a Libertine Read Free Page B

dragging her closer as their kiss caught fire. There was nothing slow or tentative about it now. Their lips and tongues met in a burning clash of need and want. The rest of the world—the party, who she was, who he was, everything—vanished. There was only the two of them, bound together by a passion that had caught them by surprise and would not be denied.
    He caressed the curve of her buttocks and caught her by the back of her thigh, drawing her up high against his body. She was braced against the marble of the statue, but she didn’t feel the cold stone. She only felt his hand through the silk of her skirts, the iron-hard press of his erection against her belly—the proof of his desire that matched her own lust for him, this gloriously beautiful man.
    She arched up into him, wanting to be closer and closer. To lose herself in him. His lips moved from hers, along the delicate line of her throat. He nipped at the curve of her shoulder, and she gasped as he soothed the delicious sting with his tongue.
    “Tristan, Tristan,” she murmured, sinking even further into need for him.
    His fingers traced the embroidered neckline of her gown, lightly teasing over the swell of her breast. She curved her back to press herself deeper into his caress, and he chuckled against her shoulder. She felt the deep, dark sound echo through her.
    He tugged her bodice lower to reveal her sheer chemise. She disdained such human tortures as corsets, and her pale skin shimmered through the fine fabric. His teeth caught at the chemise and pulled it lower until she was bare to him. Her nipples ached and tightened under his avid study.
    “What is it you want, Contessa? This?” he said. He kissed the tiny mole just at the upper edge of her right breast. His tongue skimmed over it, teasing. “Or—this?” And that oh-so-talented tongue lashed at the tip of her nipple.
    The hot, delirious sensations were so intense they were almost painful. His teasing only stoked the flames.
    “Yes,” she whispered.
    “Just this?” He flicked at her nipple with his tongue again, just once, lightly, torturously.
    “No!” She drove her fingers into his hair and pressed him close, not letting him go. He laughed, but he gave her what she craved. He took her nipple deep into his mouth, suckling at it until she cried out.
    “Shh,” he said against her skin. “Someone might hear.”
    “They won’t dare disturb us,” she answered imperiously.
    “You’re so sure about that?”
    “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
    He laughed again, and eased up her body to kiss her lips again. Through the humid, heated cloud of passion, she felt him catch her skirt in his fist and drag it up over her legs. She felt the rush of air over her skin, on her naked thighs above the edge of her silk stockings. The warmth of his hand quickly followed as he caressed the angle of her hip. He drew light, tantalizing patterns through the thin silk, higher and higher, until she moaned.
    He was an artist indeed.
    “You are beautiful,” he said, as if in awe.
    “Not so beautiful as you,” she answered. She threw back her head as he touched the bare flesh of her upper thigh. “Are you sure you were not fathered by a god?”
    He laughed roughly. “My father is a duke. Some would say that’s the same thing.”
    His thumb skimmed lightly over the damp curls between her thighs, tracing the seam of her womanhood. She spread her legs wider, inviting him inside, but he was not done teasing her. He delved between her soft, sensitive folds, just a tiny bit, then slid away. He touched the inside of her thigh, leaving her moisture on her aching skin.
    “Tristan!” she cried. And finally he touched her there. His finger plunged deep, pressing to that one most sensitive spot. He circled it with his fingertip until she felt her climax building, a hot pressure deep inside of her.
    She dragged his mouth back to hers and kissed him wildly, crying out her pleasure. Slowly, slowly, the fire subsided,