Free Wicked by Susan Johnson Page B

nun."
    "Not since Dover at least."
    He laughed, and releasing his hold, eased away and rolled off the bed. Coming to his feet, he held out his hand. At her questioning gaze, he said, "I'm offering you instant gratification."
    She immediately clasped his hand and rising from the bed followed him. Blowing out a candle flame as he passed his desk, he lifted the half-burned remnant from the candelabra and drew her after him to the settee. "Have you ever masturbated?" he casually asked, dropping onto the small sofa, his fingers sliding from hers.
    She stared at him, not certain she'd heard him correctly
    "You must not have," he noted, her startled gaze answer enough. Leaning over, he lightly stroked her m ons with the base of the candle. "I thought you might like to learn during this ten-minute hiatus."
    Serena blushed.
    "Everyone masturbates," he lightly acknowledged, "at some time or other. There's nothing to blush about. Would you like to try?"
    She shook her head, embarrassed.
    "You might enjoy it," he quietly said, sliding the candle between h er legs.
    "I prefer you."
    "But you can't have me right now." Exerting upward pressure, he forced her labia open with the pale beeswax candle.
    "Then I'll wait." But she was quivering slightly, the insinuating penetration, the tangible gliding pressure of the candle on her clitoris detonating tiny sparks of carnal lust.
    "No need to wait," he murmured, conscious of her heated response, the sleek progress of his makeshift di l do potent evidence of her irrepressible passions. She was slippery wet, her body receptive, eager for sex. "I saw a nun in an oratory onc e — d oing thi s — p utting a candle deep inside her ... up to here," he softly added, forcing the candle delectably deeper, watching Serena's face. "Can you feel it?"
    Standing before him, she closed her thighs on the intoxicating sensation, his whispered words echoing in her brain, provocative, tantalizing, as if he knew precisely what he was making her feel.
    "Tell me," he murmured.
    She couldn't. She was incapable of conjuring words with breathless, lust overwhelming her.
    "That nun had dark curls down here," he softly said, "not golden silk like this," he added, gently stroking the damp verges framing her swelling clitoris. His touch was delicate, sensitive, her engorged flesh responding, her breathing accelerating into a light panting rhythm.
    "All the altar boys used to hide behind the tapestries and watch her when she'd take advantage of the privacy in the small chapel. She had a beautiful cunt," he murmured. "Turn around, darling." He nudged Serena's hips. "So we all can see you. You're almost ready to come, aren't you? Here . . . hold the candle yourself or it's going to fall out." He knew how close she was, how primed, and he smiled faintly at her swift securing grip when he released his hold on the candle.
    "There now . . . you move it . . . push it in a little farther." And leaning forward, he gently kissed her silken mons. Her whimper of pleasure as her yielding flesh absorbed several inches more of the candle sounded delicately erotic in the quiet room. "Show my friends your big breasts," he whispered, reaching up to stroke the weighty undercurve of one breast. "Turn this way so they can see," he instructed, rotating her slightly, his hands on her hips. "We've seen them before, haven't we? Last week behind the altar when you thought you were alone, you undressed, didn't you? Alastair particularly likes your huge breasts. He's never seen any so big. He'd like to touch the m — l ike this. . . ." Beau's voice was husky, low, the fantasy he evoked scandalous, wicked. She was nude, exposed, exhibiting herself before all the covetous boys who wanted to touch her. Beau's fingertips slid over the plump, flaring roundness of her breasts, then slowly circled one nipple. "Would it be all right if Alastair sucked on this hard little tip?"
    Eyes shut, Serena shook her head, her body on fire, Beau's voice kindling