Page 93 of Pride: The Rogue
“I-I’m sorry,” she said, gasping for breath.
She’d disappointed him.
“Those are the other ones,” he growled, biting at her lower lip.
Moaning, her head fell back.
“Any man—current company included—should bloody bow down at your feet and fucking beg to kiss your hem.”
Livian knew they were just words of worship in the throes of passion, but God, when he spoke them, she could believe herself to be the desirable woman he exalted.
He filled his palms with her buttocks and dragged her against his enormous length. “Not a single fellow on God’s green earth deserves you. Nobs are stupid as hell, and I’m all too happy to be the recipient of their neglect.”
But I’m not a lady.
That distinction, which mattered most to the men in the world she’d been thrust into, didn’t matter tothisman. Lachlan didn’t dress things in pretty, polite words. He possessed a directness and rawness she’d yearned for in the man she’d one day marry.
Such wouldn’t be her future, but Lachlan Latimer offered a waking dream, and she was content to take even that smallest but most beautiful of scraps.
Drawing herself up on tiptoe, she twined her arms around his thickly muscled neck, held firm, and kissed him, a stranger by the definition of the word, whom she’d confided more with than she even had her own sister.
The back of her legs collided with the bed, this same bed where she and Lachlan first met.
“I won’t do any more than you want to do, darlin’,” he promised.
She whimpered. She wanted to be even closer to him.
“I want all of it, Lachlan,” she said.You, I want you.
“Same, darlin’. Same.” In one fluid motion, Lachlan shoved her wrapper off and lowered her nightshift. The chaste article slithered down around her legs and settled in a cotton puddle at their feet so that she stood naked before him.
Lachlan paused only long enough to run a hungry, appreciative gaze over her person.
Instead of shame, Livian felt the same power Eve surely had known with her sway over Adam.
“God, you are perfection,” he rasped, dragging his mouth over her neck and collarbone.
She sighed; that breathy exhalation dissolving to a hungry moan as he scooped her under her buttocks.
Relentless in his tormenting, Latimer sculpted his fingers into the flesh, massaging her, gripping her hard. The ache between her legs grew sharper, and of their own volition, Livian’s hips moved as she sought some relief.
“Let me feel how wet you are for me, darlin’. I’m going to bury my fingers inside your slit.” Then, with that crass promise, Lachlan slipped a finger inside her damp channel.
Her moan melded with his groan.
“Oh, sweetheart, you’re drenched—even more than you were this afternoon.”
Whimpering, mortified, she buried her head in his shoulder. Still, in Lachlan’s arms, and with him stroking her with his fingers, her body didn’t care more about decorum than it did, satiation.
She rocked furiously against him.
“Tsk. Tsk.” Chuckling, Latimer placed a kiss against her temple. “No, hiding. And none of this shyness,” he chastised. “Not from you, love.”
Love.
Yes! I want to be your love!
Abruptly, Lachlan—as if hearing her outrageous yearning—ceased his exquisite ministrations.
