“Make you come.”
“Then touch me here—”
“No. This first. I’ve waited so long. Dreamt of making you come with only this.”
He went at her again. Mouth and nipples and fingers and—ah, God. Just his voice. Just that. Desire turned that crisp, cultured English voice raw and graveled.
The sheer pleasure he drew from her—and the thought of him fantasizing about doing this to her—coalesced low in her belly. Hot between her thighs. Deeply pulsing inside her core. She groaned and arched into him, letting his mouth and hands carry her higher. Letting the waves of pleasure grow stronger and tighten. Letting them burst and then hold and then burst brighter. Higher. Rolling and blissful.
Then, she was floating, sifting her fingers through his hair while he kissed his way down her body.
“English?” she murmured. Her voice was in shreds. Had she been shouting?
“This will only take a moment.”
She blinked, confused.
He was nibbling her belly. Then lower. Then he grasped her hips and shifted her until her thighs fell open. He pressed them wider. The air blew cool across the dampness of her inner thighs and swollen folds. He positioned himself with his shoulders between her knees and his head between her legs.
Right there. His mouth was … right there.
“Er—English?”
“You don’t believe you can be aroused enough to come again, but I’ll show you. Not to worry.” His fingers stroked down in a long, strumming motion that made her eyes flare wide and her entire body jerk. “Shh, love. Easy. You’re very swollen here.” He touched her center with his fingertip.
She whimpered.
He pulsed a bit of pressure.
She arched and ground her hips against the mattress.
Something wet and sleek touched her there. Right there. Right where all the pleasure of the universe resided. It flickered and danced like light upon a rippling loch. It drove her up the same slope as before. Faster this time, as though her body knew the way by heart.
A long finger slid inside her sheath. Then a second. Then, he stretched her. And she came apart. Flew into a thousand shimmering pieces and came back together and flew apart again.
She thought he whispered something about a wee bit of pain, but her mind was roaring like the pounding ocean. Her muscles quivered and went limp. His hand streaked along her thigh, gripping and raising and finally, hooking her legs around his waist.
Then, a blunt, hot pressure began to open her sheath. Demanded entry, which she gladly gave. The way was eased by her immense arousal, and she was glad of it, for his size was difficult to accommodate.
She supposed it was because she was untried. And he was big. And—blast, why was this stretching not finished yet? She shifted her hips and tilted them up. He gripped her hard, holding her still.
His neck muscles strained and his jaw clenched. “Bloody hell,” he cursed. “Stay with me, Annie.”
She tried to relax. It helped a bit. But then, he thrust and the stinging pain intensified to a peak. He thrust again and slid deeper. Again, deeper. The sharper pain faded as the pressure grew. He moved easily, or at least it seemed so. She gripped his hips with her thighs to encourage him.
The man was obviously trying to impress her with his stamina. But she had already reached her peak twice. He should take his pleasure so they could sleep.
She stroked his hair and kissed his mouth while he tried not to move. Then, she made a decision. The man needed a good tupping, and she meant to give him one. So, she placed her mouth at his ear, nibbled a bit, then whispered, “Is that all ye’ve got, English?”
He uttered a foul curse. Groaned her name. Thrust deep and wickedly hard. Then hammered away at her like she was a post that needed setting.
It should have hurt. But oddly enough, the friction and the pressure and the pleasure in his groans were stimulating. Heat inducing. Heart stuttering. Her breasts slid against his chest, her sensitive nipples scraping skin and hair with each bruising thrust. The astonishing rebirth of a fire she’d thought well quenched made her wonder if John Huxley weren’t some sort of magician.
Whatever the root of his powers, when he slightly altered the angle of his hips to hers, she caught fire for the final strokes. What she could see of his face looked red and mad and desperate. “Again,” he growled. “Give over to me again.”
She ran her thumb across his perfect lower lip. Below, where they were joined, her sheath rippled a warning while her swollen nub dragged with every long, hammering thrust of his cock.
He reached beneath her to cup her buttocks and bring her hips higher. Tighter. Then, he did the last thing she expected. He stopped. His hips halted at the top of a thrust, and rather than withdraw, he held himself still inside her, pressing the head of his cock hard against the mouth of her womb. “Again, love.” His chest heaved like a bellows. Sweat slicked his skin. Yet, he held still. Then kissed her with near chasteness. “Do you feel it? How tight you are around me?”
She shook her head, not as a denial but simply because all thought had ceased. She spun inside a whirlwind.
“Yes,” he insisted. “Tight because you were meant to be mine alone. Wet because your nipples need my mouth. We’ll do that again tonight if you’re not too sore. You want me to move?”
She nodded. Whimpered. “English.”
His cock slid deeper, the pressure intensifying. “There. Better?”
Her answer was to arch her back and gasp for air. For bloody sanity.
“There it is.” He sounded utterly pleased. “That’s the way. Your body longs to be filled, love. Let mine be of service. That is why I was born.” His eyes burned and his arms shook and his muscles hardened to stone. “You are why I was born.”
Her pleasure broke open. Her body seized upon his with screaming force. The relentless waves milked and milked him, demanding he do precisely what he’d promised—to fill her completely. And so he did. With a hard, agonized groan, he applied himself to the task, taking her and taking her and taking her. Pounding and pounding and pounding. Heat coiled. Friction ignited. A few more ramming strokes, and she rejoiced as ecstasy consumed him in a blaze. He roared with it. He shook the bed with it. His body strained and writhed in its grip, filling her with his seed. His need. His pleasure and strength. Burying his face in her neck, he collapsed upon her, his muscles slowly easing, but his hot, damp breaths a pulsing remnant of his pleasure. In the aftermath, he eased his weight to the side but slid her thigh up over his, refusing to pull free of her.
Happily replete, she lay half beneath him, still joined, running her fingers over his remarkable arms and savoring the thought of lying like this each night. Of touching him whenever the whim took her. Of carrying his bairns inside her womb. Of watching him laugh and eat her food and become a father.
He would be a good one, she thought. Then, she tried moving a bit and grinned when he sleepily gathered her closer, refusing to let her budge an inch. John Huxley would be good at most things. Best of all, he’d be a spectacular husband.
“Marry me, Annie,” he murmured against her throat, the words slurring and drowsy. “Say you will.”