Susan Johnson by Taboo (St. John-Duras)

Teo’s mouth. “Never?”
    “Never,” he said, husky and low. “Although I’ve always wanted to.”
    Her glance flickered from his face to his pulsing erection. “It looks as though you want to now.”
    “Very much,” he murmured.
    She marveled at the boyish virtue in his expression, his modest tone, the deference in his pose; he was a superb actor. “Have you ever kissed a woman?” she inquired, watching the subtle play of emotion on his face.
    He moved his head slightly in negation, his lashes lowered.
    “Have you ever been nude like this with a woman?”
    He didn’t answer at first and then said, as though reluctant, “Only with my governess.”
    Teo’s brows rose. “How old were you?”
    “Fourteen.” A declaration without any nuance of drama, without a modicum of hesitation.
    Was it possible his answer was grounded in reality? Teo wondered, her curiosity piqued. “How old was your governess?”
    He shrugged faintly. “I’m not sure. Twenty or thirty.”
    His reply had the ring of truth. In the eyes of an adolescent, a decade would be indistinguishable. “Did she touch you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
    He nodded.
    A perverse thrill surged through her body. “I thought you said you’ve never been with a woman.”
    “I was never actually
with
her,” he clarified, his ambiguity simply put.
    “What was her name?”
    His gaze suddenly went shuttered; she’d asked the wrong question. “I don’t remember,” he said in a normal tone of voice, lying back against the pillows.
    “Are we still playing?” she inquired, questioning his disengagement.
    “As long as you want,
ma chère
,” he murmured, his smile wicked this time, not virtuous.
    “I was thinking about touching you myself.”
    “I’d be very grateful,” he replied.
    “Perhaps I should kiss you first—since you’re a tyro in love. How would that be?”
    Closing his eyes, he shifted upward in a fluid stirring of muscle and she gazed for a moment at the pure beauty of his face and form and didn’t wonder that his governess had been unable to keep her mind on her duties.
    His lips were warm and smooth when her mouth touched his and chastely closed. Balancing herself on her knees, she placed her hands on his shoulders to steady herself and felt the tension in his body.
    It gave her a strange sense of power.
    Exerting a mild pressure on his mouth, she forced his lips open, slid her tongue past his teeth, licked his tongue with a flickering caress. He made a sound—a soft growl in his throat that vibrated with tantalizing pulsations deep inside her.
    He tasted of sweet coffee and lust, of promised pleasures, and she thought for a fleeting moment of resisting such assurance. But her libido had more potent urges, outvoting reserve, propelling her forward in a languid swaying dip that brought her plump breasts in direct contact with his chest.
    When his hands came up to softly fondle her breasts, she squirmed under the shimmering sensations, and a spontaneous pulsation flowed through her vulva. Her soft moan slipped into his mouth and he recognized the sound, knew his role of tyro was suspended.
    Slipping his fingers around her nipples, he lightly squeezed, delicately massaged the crests to a taut hardness, flicked and rubbed them with a deft expertise that spiraled a flurry of heat downward, that opened and moistened her and caused her breathing to become an audible sound in the stillness. Sliding his mouth downward, he nuzzled her throat, told her what he was going to do to her in a husky deep whisper—the words explicit, arousing, having to do with submission and need. He bit the soft flesh behind her ear, marking her, holding her like a male animal about to mount a female—primal, possessive.
    “I should say no.” She shivered under his touch, knowing he knew why she shivered, wondering if a female had ever resisted him.
    “But you can’t.” He slid a finger delicately over her clitoris and her back arched against