Page 67 of An Affair with a Notorious Heiress
The backs of her thighs hit the mattress. He drew back, lifted her up, and placed her on the sheets as though she were a piece of hand-blown glass to be carefully set on velvet to avoid breaking.
He covered her body with his, heat against heat, hard steel against soft silk. He was so much larger, he fairly swamped her, yet she felt no fear, no panic. He’d made her smile again. She suspected he was going to make her smile a great deal more before the night was done.
He nipped at her shoulder, kissed her collarbone, trailed a series of butterfly-light kisses over her breasts. “Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice deep and gravelly.
She did as he bade.
“More.”
She obeyed. He eased into the space she’d created. He kissed his way down her belly before sitting back on his heels, his gaze not on her eyes, her face, her breasts, but lower, much, much lower.
“You’re not looking at me there,” she whispered, horrified by the thought she was so exposed. Why had they not dimmed the lights? Why wasn’t he already joining his body to hers?
“I am. And I’m going to do much more. I’m going to lick it.”
“No.” She tried to close her legs but he was in the way.
He curled his hands around her thighs. “Don’t struggle. I won’t do anything you object to, but I think you would like it.”
He released his hold on her legs and used his fingers to gently spread the folds open as though unfurling a rose. “Such a pretty pink.” Over the opening, he stroked a finger. When he held it up, she could see it glistening.
“So wet,” he said. “Do you ever touch yourself there?”
Now he held her gaze? When he asked such a personal and impertinent question?
She wanted to lie but there had been too much dishonesty in her other relationship. “Yes.” It came out as a scratch, like fingernails scraped over a slate.
“Do you think of me when you do?”
Still he held her gaze. She nodded.
“Do you peak?”
She bit her lower lip, not wanting to acknowledge the truth with words or movement, although she suspected he knew it.
“I do,” he said quietly, leaning forward and kissing one of her lower ribs. “When I think of you and stroke myself, I come swift and hard.” Still he did not look away from her eyes. “I fear I will do so tonight, when I am buried inside you, when your notch closes around me, hugs me tightly, threatens to strangle my cock. When you are so slick and I like a rock and we move in tandem. I fear I will not be able to wait for you—no matter how hard I try. If you were any other woman I would distract myself with sums, but I don’t want to think of anything except you, of what it feels like to be inside you.”
She had ceased to breathe, to think. If he touched a finger to her now, it would come away drenched. Her nipples had hardened; her stomach was quivering. Poetry would not have sounded sweeter to her ears.
“I want you to come before me, Tillie. Allow me to lick you, sweetheart.”
The deep yearning reflected in his low voice was her undoing. He truly wanted this—for her. A shudder of pleasure rippled through her. A croak escaped her lips. It was meant to be yes, but it sounded like desperate desire, unbridled longing. Yet apparently he accurately interpreted it, because he shifted until he was stretched out on his belly, his face positioned between her thighs. He lowered his head.
The first stroke nearly had her catapulting off the bed. Had she ever felt anything so sublime, so wicked, so marvelous? He made a sound deep in his throat as though he were feasting on a delicious morsel. Was he possibly enjoying this as much as she was?
There was no part of her that didn’t feel touched by him, that wasn’t curling. Clutching the sheets, she released a little mewling cry, embarrassed that it had escaped.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Make all the noises you want.”
“I feel a need to scream.”
“Then scream. There’s no one to hear.”
He wouldn’t judge. She knew that. She looked down at the blond curls, the strong hands cradling her hips, the broad shoulders keeping her legs spread wide. Everything she’d experienced before tonight told her that she should have been mortified by this intensely personal encounter—
Yet she’d never felt more treasured, more loved—no, not loved. They did not love each other. But she did feel adored. Appreciated. He could have taken his pleasure without worrying about her, without seeing to her needs. But he hadn’t.
She combed her fingers through his soft curls and surrendered.
