Free For His Eyes Only by Liz Fielding Page B

suggested that his thoughts were a long way from art.
    ‘Yes?’ The word was thick in her throat. Not just his thoughts—her own were on a much lower plane...
    ‘I’ll give you a first casting.’
    ‘So that I can put my “depths” on the sideboard for everyone I know to look at?’
    ‘You’ll love every minute of it,’ he said. ‘All those horny men running their hands over cold bronze, imagining the warm, living flesh.’
    ‘No...’ There was only one man she wanted running his hands over her flesh and he was right there, in front of her.
    ‘Every woman longs for something in her past with which to scandalise her grandchildren,’ he said. His face was all shadows, his eyes leaden, his voice so soft that it was barely audible.
    ‘How would you know that?’ she whispered.
    He lifted his hand in what felt like slow motion and grazed her cheek with the roughened tips of his fingers and, as he drew them down the line of her jaw, a jolt went through her body as if it had been jump-started.
    Her nipples tightened, puckering visibly beneath the heavy silk of her shirt, sending twin arrows of heat to the apex of her thighs, a bead of sweat trickled down her back and Darius, his thumb teasing the corner of her mouth, smiled darkly.
    Question asked and answered.
    She was finding it difficult to breathe, speech was beyond her; they both knew that she couldn’t wait to have her depths thoroughly explored in every conceivable way, so she did the only thing left to her.
    He didn’t take his eyes from her face as she slipped the tiny pearl buttons of her shirt one by one until the silk parted and then, her eyes never leaving his, her parted lips swollen, burning, she turned her head to suck his thumb into her mouth.
    Her tongue swirled around it, licking it, tasting clay and cake, sugar and something spicy that hadn’t come out of a jar. She whimpered when he took it from her. Whimpered again when he dragged its moist, broad pad across her lips.
    ‘Shush...’ he murmured and there was a moment of perfect stillness when the world centred on that small contact, balanced on a knife-edge. Then he slowly lowered his mouth to hers, retraced the path of his thumb with his tongue and she nearly fainted from the hot burst of pleasure that flooded through her. It was only his arm supporting her that kept her on her feet as her lips parted and his tongue embarked on a meltingly slow dance of exploration.
    She reached for him, cradling his head as the kiss deepened and her senses were bombarded from all directions. His hair tangled in her fingers, stubble tickled her palms. The scent of metal and clay and the oiled wooden handles of the tools he used clung to him, earthy and elemental. His hands tugged her shirt from her waistband and slid up her back, his thumbs nudged her breasts. The hard bulge of his erection butted into her hip.
    He leaned back to look at her as he swept aside silk and lace, his calloused fingers lifting her breasts free of her bra, grazing the tender skin. And then his tongue swept over the rock-hard tip of her breast and her knees buckled.
    There was a crash as he swept bones, tools aside and, without apparent effort, lifted her bodily onto the bench.
    Yes...
    The word spiralled through her, triumphant, exhilarating, liberating. She might have shouted it, but all she could hear was the sound of blood pounding in her ears as her pulse went off the scale. All she could feel was the heat of his mouth trailing moist kisses down her throat, his teeth, razor stubble grazing the swollen, sensitive skin of her breast, his suckling tongue sending a lightning bolt to her throbbing, swollen core.
    ‘Darius...’ It was a breathless, desperate plea and his hand was between her thighs, pushing aside the flimsy barrier to greet the liquid fire that flashed to meet first one and then two of those deliciously long fingers driving into her.
    She reared to meet them, wanting more, demanding more as the furnace, lit in the