She should be exhausted. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night.
Scratch that.
She hadn’t gotten any rest, but she wasn’t complaining.
Thanks to the beefcake, still working her body like he was born to do it, her O had returned like a Formula One race car, ready for action and raring to go.
“Raz, that’s it! That’s the spot,” she rasped.
“You don’t think I know that by now, plum?” he answered, his lips pressed against her quivering body.
Yes, there was a hint of maddening arrogance in his tone. But the man deserved some credit. He’d gotten quite proficient in the titillation department, and she didn’t even mind him talking. He could read aloud the ingredients on the back of a box of cereal. His growly words sent a heady vibration that tingled from her head down to her toes, adding to the heightened sexual bliss that had her writhing on the cusp of orgasm number…
Sweet climax pie, she’d lost count.
After her glorious orgasmic awakening on the washing machine, Raz had carried her into his bedroom. From there, she rode him like a cowgirl on his king-sized bed, and had again welcomed her O in a sweaty state of orgasmic ecstasy. She’d bucked her brains out on his mahogany four-poster bed that looked like it had rolled right off the set of Bridgerton.
And God save the Queen! She’d never been so grateful for sturdy Victorian construction.
But their evening didn’t end in the bedroom.
Exerting and maintaining that kind of erotic energy required fuel. Even the most meditative yogi required sustenance, and somewhere between reverse cowgirl and going at it doggie style while gripping one of the carved bedposts, she’d suggested they pop down to the kitchen for a snack. Thanks to the douchebag Derricks and their run-in with the Denver police, she’d missed dinner. By the time she and Raz had knocked out several more orgasms, with no intention of calling it a night, thanks to their dedication to the like-cures-like curriculum, they agreed to indulge in a brief time-out to procure nourishment.
And wouldn’t you know it, Raz’s grocery delivery had arrived earlier in the day, and his cleaning people had set a bowl of fruit on the center of the table.
What luscious fruit had they piled high into a glass bowl?
Here’s a hint: With a deep purple hue, it’s got skin so smooth all you want to do is run your tongue over the satin surface. In addition to that, the spherical delight sports a decidedly naughty trait. No one could deny that the fruit resembled a succulently tempting ass.
Yep, they walked into the kitchen, naked as the day they were born, and spied a bunch of plums.
She’d never considered any fruit sexy until Erasmus Cress plucked a plum from the bowl, sank his teeth into the flesh, then allowed the juices to run down his chin—and from there, his chest and abs.
And she could not let anything go to waste. She’d licked the sweet nectar from the man’s body like she was the naughtiest kitten, and he was a vat of cream.
But two could play at the plum game.
After her abs-fest, she’d chosen a plum of her own. She’d barely taken a bite before Raz had her spread across the kitchen table.
How’s that for a fruit plate special.
He’d kissed every inch of her before bending her over and taking her hard and fast. Sure, they’d knocked over the bowl of plums and sent the fruit tumbling across the hardwood floor. Seriously, who could concern themselves with tidying up when a sex god was doling out orgasms—and fruit.
It wasn’t even a choice.
She was team sex god every day of the week!
But the fun didn’t stop with the dirty plum incident. After the fruit frenzy, they’d defiled the stuffy chairs in the foyer. Then they’d made it halfway up the stairs before they did it again. They paused in the hallway to screw against one of the fifteen zillion doors before making it back to Raz’s suite and his decadent four-poster bed.
During this time, she’d learned a few tidbits about Erasmus Cress.
The man not only possessed a magic cock and magic hands. He also had a magic mouth, and he knew how to use it.
And that’s where she found herself in the early morning hours. She peered beneath the sheet to watch this Adonis drive her wild with lust. “Raz, I’m so close. Don’t stop,” she panted.
After last night, she should know better than to cajole him to keep going. He had the stamina of a comic book superhero and the harnessed tenacity of a school of salmon swimming upstream through a tornado. Okay, there probably weren’t a whole lot of tornados near salmon spawning grounds, but if there were, and if Raz was a fish, he’d barrel through that wind and water like the colossal beast he was. An innate, near-tangible drive seemed to propel him forward. And propel, he did. He held her hips, controlling the pace as she threaded her fingers into his ash brown hair.
“You taste like the sweetest plum,” the man growled, switching from working her with his mouth to massaging her sensitive bud with his hand as he prowled his way up her body. His hard length brushed against her thigh as he settled himself between her legs. “And now, I’ll be making you call out my name with my cock buried deep inside of you. Do you like that, plum?”
This fruit-inspired dirty talk made her head spin.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she cried, holding on to his muscled, beefy biceps, so eager to feel the power of this man as he thrust inside her.
He positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance when the distinct clap of a door slamming cut through their sex haze.
Breathless, they stared at each other.
“Could that be a draft? Did you leave a window open?” she asked.
Raz frowned. “I don’t think so. And it better not be bloody Rowen and his merry group of wankers.”
She giggled, smiling at this man, who looked back at her like she was just the plum he wanted to devour.
They waited, listening.
“Must be a draft,” he said, laser-focused on her as he slid in slowly. She closed her eyes, absorbing the energy and savoring the sensation when a voice called out—and it wasn’t Rowen or any of his merry wanker besties.
“Erasmus Cress, where are you, lad?” came a woman’s voice with the same rolling British accent as Raz.
The man stilled. “Did you hear that, or am I starting to hallucinate from shagging nonstop?”
“I heard it. Who is that?” she whispered. Could it be a member of a cleaning crew or a cook or a scullery maid? Did she know what a scullery maid did or if that was even a job in the twenty-first century? No, but this giant English manor house probably required one or two.
At least, that’s what she hoped. The alternative meant another heaping spoonful of mortification was on the way.
“Dad, are you home? Your car is out front,” came a boy’s voice.
A little boy.
It couldn’t be Sebastian, could it?
“Bollocks!” Raz whisper-shouted. “They weren’t supposed to arrive for another day.”
“Are you sure that’s not your gardener and her lad?” Libby offered, not sure where that lad came from. Could she have had so much sex with a sexy beast of an Englishman that she’d started speaking like him? Because if that was a thing, they’d probably hit the language swapping threshold. But there was no time to concern herself with semantics.
Raz scrambled off the bed, wobbling like a giant redwood tree about to come down. “No,” he whispered. “It’s my granny, and the lad is my son.”