Page 73 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
He’d have to be careful not to hurt her—and to watch himself, too. It was going to be damn difficult, but he couldn’t spill inside her. He’d protect her from that, however much his body was telling him otherwise.
He wanted to lick and bite and taste her all the way down and up again, to bury himself balls-deep and pulse his desire into the velvet heart of her—but this wasn’t about him. It was about him showing her what she meant to him.
He’d filled his hands with her, making her pant and mewl as he squeezed and tugged—but not too hard.
He couldn’t be too rough with her, but he’d been just rough enough. He wanted her to know that he was taking charge; taking charge of her body and her pleasure. She’d asked him to show her what this was about, and he didn’t plan to disappoint.
He hadn’t been sure if she’d let him kiss between her legs but she’d taken to it without too much embarrassment. Better than that. He knew where a woman’s most intense sensations were and he’d found that place for Ursula. Hearing her moan had been headily arousing. The smell of her, and the beauty of her body, the heat of what she was offering him—all of it was arousing, but most especially the trust she was investing in him.
When she’d come in his mouth, he’d almost spent on the floor, right underneath her.
Now, he moved his weight over her, pushing forward with his hips until the shaft of his erection lay against her cleft.
He groaned into the hollow of her throat.
“I’m ready, Rye. I want you. Don’t worry about it hurting. I know it will—but it will be all right. My body’s made for this, isn’t it—it’s made for you.”
Hearing her say it tipped him over the edge.
He shifted the angle of his pelvis and his cock, swollen with desire he could barely contain, and found the soft wetness she’d created for him. He drew the broad crown down her cleft, then pushed just the tip inside, rubbing against the swollen part of her. She looked up at him with wide eyes and parted lips.
She trusts you.
He had to remind himself. This wasn’t about him; it was for her.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” No, he didn’t—but the ache in his balls was going to rupture him unless he did what he needed to do.
He couldn’t hold off any longer.
He wanted to drive his cock into her heat.
He want to thrust home and ride her senseless.
He pushed forward.
Mine.
He sank deeper.
This is mine.
She tensed and gasped—but he was inside her, where it was tight and hot, and soft and—nothing had ever felt so good.
It had hurt.She’d known it would; a sharp burning as he’d entered her.
But it wasn’t hurting any more. There was too much slipperiness for that.
He was sliding into her, moving in a steady rhythm and, despite the chill of the room, she was burning hot.
He was, too. There was perspiration on his skin, making his chest stick to hers, dragging rough against her breasts.
The way he was rubbing against her was exciting, making something build again. Something raw. Something she needed. She was on the edge of it and it was different to what he’d done with his tongue.
That had been tender. Reverential even.
This was utterly carnal.
He was moving quickly, pumping fast, then faster. What had begun slowly sped and tumbled, as if they were racing to some invisible finish line.
