Hot Silk by Sharon Page Page A

them, but as he mercilessly yanked open the diamond buttons, she saw how vulnerable she was now.
    Now she had to watch.
    With his coat gaping, she caught a tantalizing glimpse of a pure white shirt beneath it as he paused to pull out the tie in his hair. His hair flowed like honey over his shoulders, far longer than it had been two years ago. Sweat made it darker, like molten amber.
    Confidence burned in his grin, and he cast aside his beautiful coat, then dragged his shirt over his head. Scars blemished his broad shoulders. He seemed bigger than he had been before, his muscles more prominent, the hollow at his throat a deep shadow.
    It was torture to look and she yearned to explore his textures—damp skin, soft swirls of golden hair, hard, velvety nipples.
    “Do you approve?” He asked it even as he opened his breeches of fine buff-colored fabric.
    “You know I do. I am sure every woman you keep does. Why do you need to hear it?”
    “It matters to me to hear you say it. To know you feel it.” One push sent his breeches down past the lean bones of his hips, and they paused at the tops of his bulging thighs. The flap shielded his cock from her curious, hungry gaze.
    She really should not want to see him naked. But she did.
    Then his breeches dropped to his boots, revealing that he wore no small clothes. Her throat tightened. She should have known. She’d seen his cock before, had thought about it every night when she went to her bed. When she slid beneath her covers and then slid her fingers down to her quim. At night, as she pleasured herself, as she worked off the yearning, the heat, the near-maddening lust, she would run her tongue around her lips and imagine the most shockingly erotic thing she could—licking the swollen head of his cock.
    Devlin sank to the arm of the wing chair, tugging off his boots. Falling over his face, his hair hid him, and he drew off boots and pantaloons so casually it was as though she was not in the room. He leaned back, supporting his weight with both hands behind him. The position let sunlight follow his sculpted body and made him look strangely vulnerable.
    Her throat dried as he grinned. “I’m nude, love, but you have not surrendered a stitch.”
    “Stand up and turn around,” she breathed. “I want to see you from the rear.”
    She intended to back away and run for the door, but as light and shadow played across his straight shoulders, across his powerful arms, she could not move. She could only stand, her heart racing, her breaths shallow, and play voyeur. Heat raced up, teasing her skin beneath her demure dress.
    Breaking the spell, she stepped forward. Grasped his tight arse and squeezed. Each cheek was hard and muscular and perfect. Soft hairs teased her palms and his firm flesh barely gave beneath her pressing fingers.
    Laughing, he twisted at his lean waist, watching her explore his rump. “I’ve never had a woman’s hands caress me with such enthusiasm.”
    “I rather like your bottom, Mr. Sharpe,” she teased.
    She met his gaze and caught her breath at the intoxicating mix of laughter and lust there. “In fact,” she added saucily, “It’s so tempting, I would like to do this—”
    Shock lifted his golden brows as she bent. Those curving cheeks beckoned her. She pressed her lips to the base of his spine, to the lovely bronze hollow. She kissed him softly, then swirled her tongue over his salty, warm, delicious skin. She could not believe she’d done such a thing, but his warm flesh was intoxicating.
    “Grace, love—”
    He sagged forward on a hoarse groan and grabbed the arms of the chair. She trailed the tip of her tongue over his round cheeks, tasting the hot, salty skin, breathing in his ripe, earthy scent. She was on her knees at his rear, and she stroked her hands up his hard inner thighs. Higher and higher she skimmed her fingers, delighted when his breath came harsh and fast.
    His spine arched, a beautiful strong curve, as she licked him all over