Page 45 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“What—”
Softly, he said, “Let’s not discuss it.”
She squeezed his hand. “This thing between us, I only wanted something strictly for pleasure. As you said, it would be my choice. Not my obligation, like with Edward, nor a trap to be avoided, like those scoundrels in London. It would have been only you and I, for a short time, and then we could have both moved on, no hurt feelings, no ulterior motives. It would have been only pleasure. As much as we wanted.”
Her words shot desire through him, his whole being growing hot with need for her. He loved the sound of her voice in the darkness, husky and rich and seductive.
“Would haveis finite,” he said, feeling his words rasp, “as if the chance has come and gone.” He moved onto his side, facing her, and with remains of firelight,he could see the lines of her face, how she had a beautifully bold nose and possessed the most incredible mouth. And, God above, the line of her throat was the embodiment of temptation. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, tell me. Because there’s nothing I want more than to taste you again. Can I?”
In response, she tugged on his hand, urging him to her.
He savored the clash of their spirits, because she was bold and determined to meet the world without fear. For the time they had together, he would be there beside her, giving her everything.
As for his own heart, he’d keep it safe. This was just two people who wanted each other; it didn’t have to be anything more.
He shifted his hold on her so that he pinned her hand to the mattress, just as he’d fantasized about. His other palm found hers, and he slid to grip her wrist, holding it to the bed just beside her head.
Her breath hitched—his dominance aroused her, as it stoked his own need.
“Aye?” he asked in a rumble.
“Yes,” she gasped.
He brought his mouth to hers. The kiss was explosive as she arched up into him, their lips and tongues and teeth devouring each other. She was ablaze, and he met her fire with his own. She tasted of tea and warm, musky sweetness. Each stroke and caress of their mouths made him burn, his entire being consumed with wanting her. Their tongues slicked against each other, the strokes going directly to his cock.
He pressed the length of his body into hers. She gave a delighted hiss at the feel of his hot, hard erection against her thigh.
“You like that,” he growled. “Like to feel my cock on you.”
In response, she moaned.
He hungered to say more, to tell her all the things he’d wanted to do to her, what he wanted her to do to him in raw, explicit detail. And yet he couldn’t form the words, a mental muzzle preventing him from freeing himself.
Hecouldask her what she needed, because nothing mattered more than pleasing her.
“I want to touch you,” he rasped. “Your pussy. May I?” When she gave another moan in response, he said tightly, “Give me the words, Beatrice. Yes or no.”
“Yes,” she said huskily. “Touch my quim. Please.”
It seemed as though he’d been waiting to hear those words from her for years, not days, because hot desire shot through him to hear her speak them.
He released one of her hands to stroke along her body. Her breast formed a perfect, velvet weight in his hand, and he caressed it. When his fingers brushed over the tight point of her nipple, she gasped and arched upward into his touch. He pinched the tip of her breast, remembering she liked that, and she made a low, pleasured sound.
God, she was so open to sensation, her responsiveness ratcheting his own sensitivity higher so that he couldn’t stop himself from rubbing the length of his cock against her. And she pushed herself into him, trying to bring him closer.
He had to slow down or else he’d shoot his seed like an untried lad. Reluctantly, he pulled his hips back from her, and she made a soft whimper of protest.
“I want you... want you...” she gasped.
“You first,” he growled.
Taking his hand from her breast, he trailed it over her soft round belly and then went lower to the coarse silk of her hair. Already, he felt the damp of her excitement. When he stroked her outer lips, she was slick with need, and when he dipped between them to find the delicate folds beneath, her arousal soaked his fingers.
“Christ,” he muttered, delighted to his marrow.
She gasped and moaned as he learned her, tracing the lips, finding her entrance and circling it. He slicked his thumb back and forth over her clitoris, and she cried out. Her nails dug into his shoulder, forming tiny points of exquisite sensation as she urged him on.
He sank a finger into her. Heat surrounded him, liquid heat, and the sounds of ecstasy she made inscribed themselves onto him—to his final days, he’d hear and treasure them.
