Charades by Ann Logan

were incredible, the dark aureoles wrinkling delightfully at his touch. The tips felt like hardened pebbles when he licked them and sucked them into his mouth, playing his tongue over them. Her small movements and noises confirmed the pleasure he gave her, making his chest swell with pride.
         Wulf made a quick decision not to remove his own clothes yet, for fear of frightening her. Besides, at this point, only staying clothed would contain the fever pounding in his blood.
         “Is everything okay?” Mercy asked.
         “Yes, oh, yes,” he whispered, his voice rough and raspy with need. He lifted her nightgown with slow and renewed determination, wanting to surround her with every aspect of his love. He delighted in the feel of her heated flesh, gently pulling the nightgown off first one arm and then the other. Skimming up the soft undersides of her arms with tiny, nipping kisses, he inhaled her unique bouquet, the fragrant, subtle scent of a woman. His woman.
         In spite of the coolness of the room, Mercy felt feverish, her skin burning like fire. She’d never known this kind of intimacy existed. It was wondrous, incredible! She tried to respond with touches and kisses of her own, but she was in such a hazy swirl of passion she could barely move. Tiny cries of pleasure and delight passed her lips. The fine sandpaper touch of his beard on her breasts and the subtle, tangy scent of his aftershave made her feel dizzy and shivery.
         When he cupped her breasts, Mercy gasped, thrusting into the rough calluses of his large hands. When he kissed her nipples and sucked them into his hot mouth, she thought she’d shatter into a million pieces. Beyond coherent speech or thought, she arched toward him, offering herself. Oh, more, more, she silently entreated. Mercy groaned in frustration, the need for something intangible thundering through her body, keeping pace with her racing heart.
         She wanted him. Wanted him to fill her being, to become one in deed as well as thought. Only he could fill the ache in her heart, the deep, hollow throb of wanting in her veins, the void in her soul that knew only him, wanted only him.
         “Wulf, I, I…”
         “Shhhhhh, I know. I’m here.”
         His hands moved down her stomach, delving under her panties. With a start of sensation, she felt him twine his fingers in the curly hairs there, teasing her soft, swollen, protective petals with unspoken promise. An aching spot of tension wound ever more tightly within her core. In spite of her need, his first faint touch was a shock to her system. With added pressure of his fingers, however, she lifted herself to him. The insistence of her body was so mystifying and overpowering she was afraid it might kill her.
         “You’re so beautiful, Mercy,” he gasped out, “especially here,” he said, slipping first one finger and then another into her moist haven.
         Mercy had no way of knowing how her small moans, gasps, and whimpers delighted and enchanted Wulf.
         “Do you like that?” he whispered in a provocative voice as he grazed the tiny bud of her awareness.
         When she didn’t answer him right away, he withdrew his fingers. “You don’t like that?”
         “Yes! No!” Her breath hitched, her hands grabbed at his arms. “I mean, don’t stop!”
         In an instant, they were both naked, their bodies touching from torso to toe. She arched toward him, rubbing her nipples and breasts against his hair-roughened chest.
         With a strangle hold on his control, Wulf began another erotic foray, concentrating on drowning her in an unthinking vortex of need and desire. Slowly he stoked the fever in her blood. The center of her universe must go no further than his body and hers, everything inevitably spiraling down to their passionate joining.
         His fingers stretched and molded her, enslaving her as he mimicked those motions with his tongue in her mouth.