Page 54 of A Tempest of Desire
He bucked his hips and she lifted hers with a raspy, “Not yet.”
He doubted there was a torture device at the Tower of London that could cause more torment than he was presently experiencing. To want with every fiber of his being—to experience excruciating pleasure in the waiting to possess.
With her, even when everything was fast and frenzied, there was a slowness, a savoring... a knowing that ultimate indulgence hovered on the horizon. A thunderstorm that couldn’t be quieted or tamed. That would have its way with them and make them grateful it had.
Marlowe cursed the split lip. She could take only small nibbles, tiny tastes. But when she touched the tip of her tongue to the head of his cock, he jumpedwith such force as to nearly throw them both off the bed.
“Have mercy,” he ground out.
She lifted her gaze to his, smoldering with such intensity, she was surprised it didn’t ignite the room. Never breaking eye contact, she nibbled her way down the length of him, taking so much satisfaction in his strained features that she almost experienced her own release.
Suddenly he grabbed her, tossed her on her back, and settled himself between her thighs. “Two can play at that game.”
And then down he went.
With the first stroke of his tongue, a strained whimper escaped and she squeezed her eyes shut. Last night had been the first time she’d ever experienced this particular method of receiving pleasure. She’d never even imagined it, but she supposed her reaction had indicated that she thoroughly enjoyed it. Yet everything with him, even the things she’d experienced multiple times, seemed... novel. Perhaps it was the method of his delivery. It was as if he possessed her, owned her, controlled her.
Yet she felt that she did the same with him.
Each striving to ensure the other experienced the ultimate in ecstasy.
And together they ensured they would.
He took hold of her hips and raised them to his feasting mouth, and she very nearly came undone. So many sensations. So deep. So lasting. So incredible.
It was obvious he was enjoying it as well... or at least her reaction to it. His moans and groans served to amplify her enjoyment. She was close, so very close.
“Langdon.”
Without ceasing his attentions, he captured her gaze.
“I want you inside me when I fall apart.”
“Christ.” It was more a feral groan than an exclamation.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of one thigh and then to the other before easing up, bracing his arms on either side of her, hovering over her. “Guide me home.”
Oh, God. She might not have been able to smile with her mouth but the rest of her grinned with giddiness—like receiving on Christmas morning something she’d been lusting after all year. She wrapped her fingers around him, angled her hips, and brought him to the cusp—
With a tortured groan, he slid deeply into her and stilled, as though savoring the closeness achieved. She wrapped her legs around that incredible backside of his, squeezed.
And then they were moving in tandem. Him thrusting, her meeting those thrusts with equal fervor. The pleasure building, rapidly climbing to impossible heights—
Untethered, she soared, crying out, tightening her hold on him. His guttural groan echoed around her as his back arched with his final thrust.
Breathing heavily, he lowered himself to hiselbows, buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, and pressed a kiss to her damp, and still singing, flesh.
He was resting on his back, Marlowe draped over him. She’d thought she was a woman of the world, and yet he was teaching her things, showing her things, making her feel things she’d never imagined possible. She’d never realized what she lacked in education.
“There’s a hell of a lot about being with you, Marlowe, that I’ve not experienced with another woman. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s an illusion because it’s been months since I’ve been with anyone.” She was very much aware of him going so still she wasn’t certain he was even breathing. “But I don’t think that’s it.”
He shifted them both until they were lying side by side, facing each other. He threaded his fingers through her hair, resting the heel of his hand against her jaw. His voice was low, sounding almost confused. “I do know I don’t want to take you back to Hollingsworth.”
She knew she didn’t want him to take her back. But neither did she want him to ask her to be his mistress, and she suspected it was all he would offer. He was decent and proper; his family was decent and proper. And she was anything but.
“I don’t suppose”—he closed his eyes, opened them, and held her gaze—“you’d consider becoming my mistress? I would give you twice whatever he gives you. A larger residence, more servants, a more generous allowance.”
Why did it hurt so bloody much to have her suspicions confirmed? From the moment Hollie had taken her in, she’d worked to be flamboyant, eccentric, noticed. And she had succeeded beyond her wildest imaginings. Unfortunately, she’d also managed to create a trap for herself. She had taken what Hollie needed her to be, embraced it proudly, refusing to cower before those who looked at her with disdain, as though she had fecal matter spread over her face.
