For His Eyes Only by Liz Fielding Page A

with her head against his shoulder, her lips slightly parted, wisps of escaping hair brushing his neck. Now the scent of hot woman was filling his lungs.
    ‘You want action, Sugarlips?’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’
    Needing no second invitation, she slid her hands through his hair, tangling it in her fingers, a little cat smile tugging at her lips as she made him her captive, teased him with her mouth, sucking, nipping, inviting him to come out and play.
    He was in no hurry. Right now her breasts were snuggled against his chest, her backside was tormenting his erection, her mouth trailing moist kisses under his chin.
    There was nothing more arousing than a woman intent on pleasure and, resting his hands on her hips, he did no more than support her, holding her steady so that she could concentrate on driving him wild.
    It didn’t take long. Her top, barely skimming her waistband, rode up as she leaned forward and he closed his eyes, memorising each curve of her lovely body as his hands, with a will of their own, slid up to graze the silk of her skin. Her waist dipped above the flare of her hips; there was nothing straight about her, he discovered, as his thumbs teased the edges of her stomach and she squirmed on his lap.
    For a moment he was the one holding his breath but then he reached her ribcage and he felt the hitch of her breath under his hands as his fingers took a slow walk up her spinal column, kneading each vertebrae in turn, pausing only to release the catch on her bra, so that his thumbs were free to imprint the soft swell of her breasts in his memory. They had just reached her nipples when her tongue found the pulse throbbing in his neck.
    With a roar, he pulled her top, bra over her head and tossed them behind him, then forgot to breathe as she leaned back against the steering wheel, eyes smoky, slumberous, only the tiniest rim of blue circling satin-black pupils.
    ‘Perfect,’ he said, filling his hand with her full, ripe breasts, thumbing her rock-hard nipples, stroking them with his tongue, sucking on them. Just perfect...
    ‘Darius...’ There was an urgency in her voice now and he popped the button at her waist, slid down the zip and eased his hands down inside the back of her jeans, a scrap of lace, easing them down as he cupped her peachy backside in his hands and lifted her towards his mouth.
    He swirled his tongue around the dimple of her navel, mouthed soft kisses in the hollow of her pelvis, blew against the blonde fluff of her sex and she whimpered, wanting more. She was right—this wasn’t enough. He wanted her naked. He wanted her out of here, lying on a bank of soft grass down by the stream with sunlight, filtered through the leaves, playing on her skin. He wanted to touch every inch of her, memorise her body. Be inside her...
    ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, pushing open the door and half falling with her into the verge, where they lay laughing, catching their breath amongst long grass, red campion, a few late bluebells that were a perfect match for her eyes. ‘Come on,’ he said, hauling her up, holding her close, not wanting to let her go even for the short scramble down the bank.
    She clutched at jeans that were heading for her knees. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
    ‘What the...?’ He swung round and Natasha gave a little shriek as they were confronted by a helmeted, visored security guard. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’ he demanded.
    Ignoring his question, the guard said, ‘This is private property. You’re going to have to leave.’
    ‘What? No...’ Then cursed himself for every kind of fool—Ramsey had told him that he’d employed a security firm to keep an eye on the place. Cursed again as he realised that Natasha was standing there without a stitch above her waist and not much below it and putting himself between them. ‘Show a little respect,’ he said, boiling with anger that the man hadn’t had the decency to look