Burning Up

said clearly, so there could be no doubt.
    Inside him something rigid as a scar relaxed. She desired him. Although a woman in her profession must be skilled at making her clients feel wanted.
    Her eyes laughed at him. “Unless you are not willing to offer your services after all.”
    She must know. She must see. Beneath his breeches, he was hard as a rifle barrel and as ready to go off.
    “I believe,” Jack said gravely, “I am up for the task.”
    She sank onto the low rope bed, bare feet flat on the floor, naked knees parted. Still smiling, she reached for him, hooking her fingers into his breeches flap to draw him close between her smooth, pale thighs. His heart pounded.
    In a kind of fever dream, he stared down at the top of her head. Her lower lip pouted in concentration as she worked the buttons from their holes, the brush of her knuckles sweet agony. A bar of sunlight slid between the shutters, firing her white blond hair to gold.
    A little hum—triumph or approval—escaped her throat as she freed her prize. The contrast between her slim white fingers and his dark, thick cock seared his brain. His erection jerked in her hands.
    Jack closed his eyes, absorbing her feather touch as she cupped and explored him. His hands rested lightly on her head. How long since a woman had held and caressed him? He could not think. Like this? Never.
    Liquid fire swirled. His eyes shot open. She wasn’t . . . She couldn’t. . . .
    She licked her lips, tasting him. Apparently she had. With her tongue.
    Dear God.
    His collar and boots felt suddenly too tight. His mouth went dry. Of course she wouldn’t . . . No woman had ever . . .
    His knees nearly buckled as she fit her slick, hot mouth over the head of his cock. She was doing it, sucking him, swallowing him, sliding her full lips up and down his shaft, taking him deep in her throat. His mind blanked. His hips arched instinctively.
    He was going to explode. He had to stop her. He would stop her. In a minute.
    Or not.
    His hands clenched convulsively in her hair. The strands slid cool and smooth as water between his fingers, against his belly. His gaze fell on the arch of her brow, the line of her back, the delicate bumps of her spine. He couldn’t see her face. But, oh God, he could feel her. Her tongue . . .
    She was naked, submissive, bending before him, totally focused on his pleasure and yet utterly in control.
    It was unbearably erotic.
    And oddly unsettling.
    He slid his hands to her shoulders and pushed her firmly onto the mattress. Levering himself over her, he settled his weight against her, absorbing the damp heat of her flesh, the womanly softness of her body. His erection lodged against her stomach.
    She lay back, her hair fanning over the pillow, watching him with half-lidded eyes, a faint smile on her lips. He wanted . . . He didn’t know what he wanted. Only her.
    Spreading her thighs wide, he mounted her with one strong, deep thrust.
    Her sharp inhale echoed his own.
    She felt so good, hot and wet and welcoming beneath him. Around him. Lowering his face to the side of her head, he inhaled the clean, salt tang of her hair. She smelled of sunshine and woman, of sex and the sea. For the first time in weeks, he felt he could breathe.
    He hunched his back, stroking slowly in and out, feeling her inner muscles clench and quiver in response. But his right knee would not bear his weight for long. With a grunt, he reversed their positions, pulling and lifting her to lie over him while she laughed and rubbed against him like a cat.
    He saw the red imprint of a button on her breast and frowned. He should take off his jacket. His boots. Any woman, even a whore, deserved that much courtesy.
    But she required no preliminaries. Desired none. Quick as a fish, she straddled him, hot and gloriously wet. Taking him in hand, she impaled herself on his cock. Sensation bolted in a white hot arc from his balls to his brain.
    Her name ripped from his throat. “Morwenna.”
    In the plain, dim room, she burned above him, her hair a wild halo around her head, her white breasts tipped with coral or with flame. Her smooth thighs squeezed his sides. She set a shallow rhythm, rocking herself, pleasuring herself. Riding him. Her head was flung back, her eyes closed as she ground her wet sex against him. He was buried in her as deep as a man could be, intimately connected and yet apart.
    He wanted her with him. Body and soul. Cunny and cock.
    Grasping her buttocks, he pulled her down