Page 78 of Pride: The Rogue
At some point, the anger had gone from his lesson, to be replaced with that gentle, but firm control that threatened to drive her mad with desire.
“You’ve never come, have you, Livian?” he asked hotly while ravaging her mouth. “That is,” he both taunted and tormented, “you’ve probably touched your sweet quim a lot. But you’ve never had a man make you scream as you came.”
His crude speech sent a shameful flood of heat rushing between her legs.
Equally titillated and mortified, she attempted to bury her head against his shoulder.
Laughter rumbled through his frame and shook hers.
Lachlan caught her right hand and dragged it to his mouth. He shifted his attentions to the seam of her wrist, and lightly bit and sucked where her pulse pounded.
“As beautiful as your fingers are, darlin’, your body wants to know what it is to have a real man, isn’t that right?”
She whimpered.
“Let me show you the way, darlin’,” he urged thickly. “Please.”
Please.
This bold, powerful, virile man should beg her?
“Yes!” she rasped.
She’d never have a loving husband who burned for her and only her, but she’d know what it was to feel actual passion with Lachlan.
It would be enough.
It had to be.
Before she knew what Lachlan intended, he reached between her buttocks and pressed the heel of his palm against the juncture of her thighs.
“Lachlan!” she cried out his name; the call of her desire stark and beautiful in the absolute countryside quiet.
Masterfully, Lachlan stroked her; he slid his long, callused, fingers slowly and gently inside her wet channel and then back. Over and over.
Like a crazed wanton, her entire being tunneled on the agonizing ache. Biting her lip, she pushed herself against Lachlan’s hand, rocking into him.
More. I need more…
He chuckled. “You want more.”
“D-Did I s-say that out loud?” she panted.
“Only with your body, sweetheart,” he said, his voice equally strained. “No words needed.”
Lachlan withdrew his fingers, and she cried out; her hips bucked spasmodically.
“It’s how I know you want something hard between your legs,” he whispered, sucking on her earlobe.
Taking her by the hips, he guided her astride his oak-hard thigh. “Ride me, sweetheart. Ride me like I’m your favorite mount.”
She should be horrified. She should be repulsed, shocked, disgusted with him, but more, horrified at her own wantonness.
For his wicked words set her burning to scorching levels that threatened to set her ablaze from the inside out.
Just like he’d instructed, she began to move on him.
Gripping the globes over her buttocks in a tighter, more delicious hold, he helped her find the rhythm. “Good girl,” he praised.
