Court of Flowers (Sutherland Book 1)

XXI | Afternoon Walk

He held his breath.

Waited.

Her eyes searched his, asking if this was part of the game.

The hint of moonlight revealed her eyes and they were dancing, alight with fire.

Then she sighed.

Resignation.

Sasha's hands wound around his neck with a slight tug and West let out a sigh—or a groan of relief before his mouth crushed down on her.

It was potent. It was spontaneous. The fire surged and consumed, eating any remnants of reservations he may have had with this woman.

The groan that escaped them both was evidence of the days they had to deprive themselves of this.

They should have known that the teasing would never be enough.

This was the real game.

His mouth opened wide. He angled his head to take more and he grabbed the chance when she answered, opening her mouth to welcome, to meet.

He swore he heard himself moan, tormented by sensations.

She tasted like sherry. She tasted woman. His arms tightened around her, pressing her hard against his length, desperate for her to feel the yearning, the need.

With a whimper, Sasha squirmed restlessly in his arms, pressing her hips deeper into his, almost grinding, driving him insane. With a guttural sound rolling from deep within his throat, West pushed her against the wall. A book fell with a thump on the carpeted floor.

"You taste better..." he managed, "...than I imagine." His mouth traveled down her jaw, his teeth scathing her skin. He tasted down her neck and lingered at the spot where she pulsed, the rhythm matching the hammering in his chest. Dipping his head lower, he found the hollow dip of her collarbone. Her chest heaved as he took his mouth lower until he met the edge of her neckline. And then he suckled. Sasha pushed away from the shelf and pressed into him, the movement subtle and graceful.

His hand reached for the skirts of her gown and searched until he found her bare leg underneath, pulling it high, hitching it on his hip as he stepped closer and against her. A rumble of frustration escaping his throat, cursing the layers of fabric between them because he needed to feel more.

The kiss would not be enough.

He straightened to search her languid eyes. Nostrils flared, breath hot and shaky, he claimed her mouth once more. "You are winning this game twice," he rasped against her lips.

Sasha did not answer as she welcomed his hungry kiss. He was devouring her, suckling her soul, her words. He would hate to hear her say stop. His hand under her skirts moved higher.

"Bloody hell, Sasha, how many layers do these gowns have nowadays?" he asked, his hand searching the secrets of her drawers.

She swallowed, breathless. Hot air blowing out of her swollen lips. "Quite a few—" the rest of her words were left unspoken as her head fell back and her mouth spontaneously parted, letting out a whimper. "A few layers..."

He did not let her finish as he claimed her mouth again, stealing her words, her breath.

"And have I ever told you how I hate your gowns?" he asked against her mouth.

She was no longer listening, he thought. He stilled his hand and she whimpered with need.

Sasha swallowed. Chest heaving, she opened her mouth to speak. "No, but I have had an inkling you hate them," she rasped O, biting her lower lip, inhaling deeply, letting out a rough breath of frustration and need. Her eyes met his in the darkness, fluttering close then open, pupils wide and glimmering with unspent pleasure. "I ended the game last night," she said, gasping at the last word when his hand moved. Her hips buckled and her hands gripped his shoulders tightly. "I guess we both lost this game."