He lifted his head, but his gaze remained on her breasts. “I’ve been thinking of this all day—your nipples, bare to me and what I would do with them. I could hardly walk for the cockstand in my breeches.” His eyes flicked to hers, and she saw that his expression was almost angry. “That’s what you do to me—turn me into a mindless, hungering cock.”
She squirmed at the words, so crude and explicit.
His nostrils flared at her movement and she froze. “Hold them for me. Offer your breasts to me so I can suck them until you come.”
Oh, Lord! She mustn’t let him talk to her this way. He would assume too much if she allowed him to order her about. But at the same time, she felt the moisture seep at her center from just his words. She wanted to offer herself to him. She wanted to let him suck her nipples. So she placed her palms under her breasts and lifted them, like a sacrifice to a half-animal god.
He growled low in his throat, a sound of approval, and attacked her breasts. Nipping and licking, grasping the rosy tips gently between his teeth, moving back and forth from one breast to the other, his day’s growth of beard scraping against her sensitive skin. Then he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked at it, worrying the opposite nipple with his fingers. And the two points of pleasure lit within her until she arched helplessly, gasping. It was too much. He would hurt her. She couldn’t stand anymore.
She shuddered, a light blinding her behind her closed eyes as warmth flooded her limbs. Her hands fell away, but he continued to lick, his tongue gently soothing on her breast, each rasp a separate spark. She felt the soft brush of his lips as he kissed her nipple.
She opened her eyes. She met his coffee-brown gaze, for he was right there, her breast under his mouth. His look was intense and not kind.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he muttered, and jerked the coverlet from her legs.
He pushed her thighs apart unceremoniously and sank between them, guiding his penis with one hand. He found her entrance and pushed, parting and breaching her. He pushed again, entering her and entering her until his entire length lay inside. His eyelids fell helplessly and he groaned, still and hard and in her.
She smiled. How could she not? He took such pleasure in her flesh, seemed so powerless to stop himself from enjoying her. She touched the side of his face with her palm, and he opened his eyes, shockingly bright.
“You’re laughing at me,” he growled.
She shook her head, opening her mouth to explain, but he’d levered himself up so that he was braced on straight arms, his hips pressing hers down into the mattress. And then he moved. He withdrew and jolted back into her, hard and fast. She closed her eyes, forgetting what she was about to say, not caring if he was offended or even angry with her, as long as he kept moving. His hardness was thrusting in her, rubbing against her sensitive flesh, relentless in its purpose—to pleasure him and her.
“Will this do?” he grunted.
She didn’t answer, lost in a sea of bliss.
He slammed into her and held still. “Will this do, my lady?”
Her eyes flew open and she glared at him. “Yes!” She clutched at his buttocks, trying to get him to move again. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Just move, damn you!”
And he complied, either chuckling or growling low in his throat; it was impossible to tell, because her eyes had fallen closed again. Besides, she just didn’t care anymore. All she cared about was the movement of his body in hers. The relentless pistoning, the relentless pleasure. His hardness and drive and the fact that she never, never, never wanted him to stop.
Until she came in wave after crashing wave. She felt his hand cradle the side of her face. She opened her eyes in time to see him arch, his pelvis grinding against hers, and she watched Samuel Hartley convulse as he came deep inside of her.
HE WAS GASPING, more out of breath than when he ran. She’d wrung him dry and it felt wonderful.
Sam collapsed onto Emeline, careful to keep most of his weight off of her but still wanting to feel her fully beneath him. Her breasts against his chest, her belly under his, and her legs tangled about his knees. Somewhere at the back of his brain, he knew that this was a primitive urge to dominate the woman—his woman—and that it was not a kind urge or one he should be proud of. But he pushed the thought away because he was too tired to reason; besides, the position was perfect.
Although maybe not to her.
“Get off me,” she mumbled.
He didn’t think he’d ever heard the so-proper Lady Emeline mumble before and he was delighted. “Am I crushing you?”
“No.” She was quiet for a bit, and he thought she might’ve fallen asleep. But then she spoke again. “But you should get off me, anyway.”
“Why?” He’d placed his head on the pillow beside hers and was enjoying lying face-to-face and watching her expression.
She wrinkled her nose without opening her eyes. “Because it’s the polite thing to do.”
“Ah. But I’m very comfortable where I am, so I’m not that interested in politeness at the moment.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she scowled at him in an utterly adorable way. Not that he would ever tell her, but he found her anger arousing.
“Isn’t my comfort of any importance?” she demanded in a haughty, upper-crust accent.
“No,” he told her kindly. “None at all.”
“Humph,” was her not-very-eloquent retort, and he smiled at that as well. He loved having reduced her to monosyllables.
She’d closed her eyes again, and now she said sleepily, “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“That’s because”—he leaned close enough to kiss her cheek and then whisper in her ear—”my cock is in your cunny.”
“Self-satisfied,” she mumbled.
“Yes, and so are you.”
She grunted. “Go to sleep, you vain man.”
He smiled to himself since she could no longer see and pulled the coverlet over them both. And then, still interlocked with her, he followed her orders and let himself sleep.
EMELINE CAME FULLY awake all at once early the next morning. She immediately knew that she had stayed the night in Samuel’s room. He still lay beside her. In fact—she tried an experimental wiggle—he still lay in her. Which made a discreet exit rather awkward.
She watched him. He lay prone, his face turned toward her. His hips covered hers, but most of his upper body was off her chest, except for an arm, thrown possessively over her breasts. The lines beside his mouth had smoothed, and he looked young, his brown hair tousled like a boy’s. Had he looked this way before the war?