Page 46 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“Shh,” he urged, nibbling the shell of her ear, then kissing her neck. “I need to touch you … just this once … let me …”
She nodded, burying her face against his neck as he reached deeper into her breeches, seeking her cunt. He would never have thought touching her could feel more pleasing, more intensely erotic. Yet, this action of opening men’s clothing and finding her feminine body underneath … it was more wildly thrilling than anything he’d ever experienced.
Her breath raced against his neck as he found the seam of her mons, tracing it with his middle finger, exploring the secret flesh hidden within. She was already soaking wet, coating the tip of his finger in her juices, the evidence of her need making his mouth water.
“God, you’re so wet,” he whispered, circling his digit around her opening, a passage so tight, it had to be unexplored. “Has anyone ever touched you this way?”
“N-no,” she groaned, her hips moving against his hand instinctively, as if her body knew what to do even if she’d never been so intimate with anyone. “I’ve only ever touched myself there.”
He made a rough sound against her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting for composure. The thought of her touching herself had nearly undone him.
“I want to taste you,” he said, sliding his finger upward, seeking out the center of her pleasure. “I want this wetness all over my lips, your legs spread for me so I can devour you.”
He found her clit and pressed against it. Despite his light touch, she bucked against him, nearly rearing up out of his lap in reaction.
“I’d put my tongue right here,” he told her, slowly circling his finger over the little nub. “I’d lick and suck you until you screamed and begged me to stop. But I wouldn’t stop, Lydia. Once I got a taste of you, I don’t think I could ever stop.”
She fisted the front of his coat, holding fast as he stroked her rhythmically, slowly at first, then faster, until the sounds she made told him all he needed to know. She was close, on the precipice of climax.
“Oh, but I’d have to stop,” he murmured between kisses along the column of her neck. “Because after I’d tasted my fill of you, I’d want more … I’d want this tight little quim wrapped around me. I’d want to be so deep inside you that I never found my way out.”
She trembled, the little shocks that jolted her emanating from her body to his fingers, responding to him as if she’d been made to be touched by him and only him.
“I’d take my time with you,” he rasped, his own need making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. “I would sink into you, stroking inside you with my cock while you lay under me, hands clenching the sheets tight.”
“Sinclair,” she moaned, stiffening in his arms, the tension in her body reaching its breaking point, her culmination so near.
“You’d whisper my name just like that,” he went on, still steadily stroking her, increasing pressure, pushing her toward her end. “With every stroke of my cock inside you, you’d say my name, each utterance speaking of your pleasure in a way no other words could.”
He replaced the finger against her clit with this thumb, then sought out her passage with his first finger, her wetness allowing him to ease inside. She cried out, burying her face against the fabric of his coat as she came apart in his hands, shaking and quivering as her inner channel began pulsing and shuddering around his digit.
He used one arm to hold her tight, still steadily teasing her, riding out her orgasm to the finish, refusing to let up until she’d gone silent and still.
Lydia slumped against him, her breath sawing in and out noisily while he held her, softly kissing the top of her head and whispering to her—senseless words that could never mean anything outside this moment. Words that he could never follow through on, promises he could never keep.
After a while, he urged her to sit up so they could begin untangling from one another. Drawing his hand from inside her breeches, he found his fingers still slick with her essence. Unable to resist the impulse, he raised those fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, cleaning them of her and indulging in her taste at the same time. His cock leapt, seeking shelter inside her, impeded by the layers of their clothing. He closed his eyes and stifled a groan, now forced to beat back the urge to lay her down on the ground and finish what he had begun.
“We have tarried too long,” he said, urging her to her feet and following, his legs tingling with a rushing of blood. “If we do not return soon, someone might come looking for us.”
Lydia stared at him, lips stained red from the pressure of his, eyelids heavy over unfocused eyes. She seemed to be in a daze, the afterglow of her climax still consuming her mind, heart, and soul. He smoothed his hands over her hair, quickly tucking stray strands behind her ears, then adjusting the collar of her shirt. After ensuring the tails had been properly tucked in and she looked as decent as he could manage, he cupped her face in his palms. Dipping his head to kiss her, he took his time, despite the urgency of the moment. He claimed her lips gently, slowly, making it last just a bit longer, loath to return to the house and the life in it that made no room for her.
“Lydia, we have to go now,” he urged, even as he smoothed his thumb over her lips and contemplated kissing her again.
“We … I … we should not have done that,” she murmured, lowering her eyes.
He nodded. “I know. But I cannot find it in me to feel sorry for it … or anything I’ve ever done when it comes to you.”
Her eyes snapped up, and their gazes met. In her stare, he found a turbulent mixture of wonder, desire, regret, and turmoil. He felt every one of those things deep in the pit of his gut.
“I do not know what happens now,” she said.
He sighed, pressing his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. “Neither do I. I just know … the way I feel …”
She took his hand and pressed it to her breast, her heart beating a rapid cadence against his palm. “I know. I feel, too.”
“I do not want you to think I only want you physically,” he declared, opening his eyes to meet her gaze once more. “I would never want you to believe that I think to make you my mistress or my lover, or anything so common. You mean so much more to me than that.”
She nodded. “Sometimes, I think becoming your mistress or your lover might be the most shameful thing I could ever allow myself to be. Then, other times, I wonder if being anything to you at all is better than being nothing.”
