Page 82 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
“God.” But he would not let her sweet words trick him into delusions. Her body might need his, but her soul needed the world. She was a wanderer, and she would not stay.
And he would never deny her the pleasures of travel, of finding out who she was as she walked into the world. God, she wouldownthe world.
And him with it.
“Please, Cass,” she said, a hot whisper in his ear.
He wrapped her already hitched leg around his waist and lifted her with the hand still kneading her rear. She wrapped her other leg around him as if she’d done so a million times before. He carried her the short distance to the bed and lowered her onto its edge, then flipped her over so her head and chest and belly pressed into the mattress and her legs hung off. Her lovely, rounded arse lifted toward him, outlined by the faded silk of a well-worn dressing gown and, below that, the sheerest cotton night rail.
“Cass?”
He heard the question in his name. He knelt behind her, lifted the short hem of her dressing gown and night rail, kissed the newly exposed backs of her knees, then lifted the garments all the way up, revealing every bare inch of her lower half. Her skin was smooth and soft and pale and glowing everywhere. He was hard, so hard, and he pressed his growing erection against the cleft of her backside.
She moaned and crushed the counterpane in her hands.
He released his fall in a matter of moments and, with his other hand, stroked his fingers down her back.
She arched, shivering. “Cass, this is—”
“An adventure?”
She collapsed onto the mattress. “Yes.”
“Will you let me? Like this?” Part of him wished to love her body slowly, thoroughly, but he felt wild for her, wild that she’d come to him, and wild about what that might mean. Anything? Likely not. But for right now, she belonged to him, and he wanted her from every angle.
Including this one.
He stroked his fingers through her folds and rubbed her nub until she became pure, writhing, golden pleasure. He left her only to find the sheath.
She made a small moan of disapproval until she saw him slip the French letter on and realized his intentions, but then her eyes caught fire. “Kiss me.”
He tangled his hands in her hair and gently pulled her head back, gently bent her upper back, and kissed the underside of her jaw, the curve of her neck, pushed aside the shapeless fabric of her night rail and loosened dressing gown and licked a line down her shoulder.
“Yes.” She trembled.
His fingernails on her back again, scoring her as his own. He wrapped his hands around her hips, and when he thrust into her, she cried out, a sound of pleasure, not of pain. And he gritted his teeth. Then he pulled out and crashed into her again.
“Cass,” she moaned. “Again.”
“What else do you need? Tell me.”
“Again. Only again.”
He did so, and she muffled a curse in the mattress.
“What else do you need?” he demanded, wanting to give her everything she asked for.
“Again.”
“Slower?”
“No.”
“Then what? What do you need?”
“You,” she cried, lifting her face from the bed and calling out his name to the midnight stars.
His thrusts came faster and faster, and soon he joined her in complete satiation, falling onto the bed at her side. He wrapped an arm around her and counted her breaths. One, two, three—fast. Four, five, six—slower. And seven, eight, nine, ten—the deep, slow rhythm of sleep.
