Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel(Scoundrels of St. James,Book 4)(32) by Lorraine Heath
She scraped her nails over his shoulders while her body curled into itself.
“What do you want, Eleanor?” he rasped.
“Don’t talk, please don’t talk.”
“What do you want?” he persisted.
She wanted to weep, as his breath wafted over her nipple until it tightened into a pebble. “I don’t know. Something.”
“This,” he growled, before his mouth closed over her breast and he began to suckle. She thought she was going to come off the bed, like a hot air balloon breaking free of its moorings. She twisted into him, bucked against him.
His hand skimmed along her stomach until it reached her nest of curls. She felt his finger slip inside her, deep inside her.
“You’re so wet, so hot, so ready,” he whispered.
And she was. Almost as ready as he. Every muscle in his body was tense and vibrating. His heart pounded so hard that he thought it might actually burst. He loved having her beneath him, the silkiness of her skin, the velvetiness of her womanhood. He wanted her so badly that it was a testament to his control that he’d not yet taken possession. As his finger glided into her, he felt the tightness.
“I may hurt you after all,” he murmured with regret.
“I don’t care.” She skimmed her hands over his chest and back, as though she couldn’t get enough of touching him.
Every place she touched mourned when she moved on to give her attentions elsewhere. His body was screaming at him, screaming for him to have her now. To take her. She was wet, so very wet. Hot, so very hot.
He wished he’d considered this moment, but he’d never before taken a virgin. He should have plied her with whiskey.
Too late now. He shifted up so he was hovering above her.
She thought she should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Whatever discomfort she felt, she knew it was nature’s doing, not his. He’d prepared her with his hands and his mouth, his fingers and his tongue.
She felt him probing gently. Fighting not to tense, she concentrated on the feel of his shoulders beneath her hands, the dew that had gathered as he denied his satisfaction, the bunching of his muscles as he prepared to join them together.
As he entered her, there was pain. She couldn’t deny it, and she could tell by the sorrow that touched his eyes that she’d done a poor job of masking it. His arms trembling, he stilled when she knew he wanted to break free of the moorings and fly.
“I’m all right,” she assured him.
“I’m in no rush.” He lowered his head and kissed one corner of her mouth—
—and then the other.
“We have time,” he assured her.
Not as much as he might think.
She wiggled beneath him. Kissing her chin, he slowly began rocking against her. The pain began to ease as though her body, after stretching to accommodate him, was adjusting to his welcomed arrival. Other sensations began to replace the ache. She began to concentrate on those as they began to drown out all others.
He was like the sea, so strong as it crashed against the shore, so calm as it retreated with a promise to return. A promise he kept, returning over and over, slamming forcefully into her, carrying her up toward the highest crest of the waves. It was glorious, riding out the storm of pleasures with him. Sensations swirled and spiraled.
When they crested, she dug her fingers into his buttocks and arched her back to meet him. She’d never known anything so powerful, so arousing, so incredibly wonderful. Until he began to move faster, jerkily, his groans echoing around her. She hung onto him, watching the muscles in his face contort.
“Eleanor!” he ground out through clenched teeth as his body spasmed and one last thrust, if at all possible, struck more deeply than any of the others. Collapsing on top of her, his breathing harsh, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder before rolling over and drawing her against his side.
It had been the most meaningful experience of her life, yet all she wanted to do was weep.
Absently, Swindler glided his hand up and down Eleanor’s arm. Never in his life had he experienced anything as intensely satisfying. Eleanor had touched him more intimately than any other woman. Pleasure had rocked her with a force that astounded him—and if he were honest, stroked his masculine pride.
She was so easily aroused and not at all afraid to share what she was feeling, experiencing, thinking. While he’d enjoyed the company of many ladies, with Eleanor he sensed there was no guile between them. Her reactions were all honest, her cries all heartfelt. She was unlike any woman he’d ever known. He didn’t want her to leave his bed.
She would have to in a few more hours, before the sun rose, before anyone was up to see her leave his lodgings and arrive at her own. They’d had an illicit night, but nothing about it had seemed forbidden. If anything, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. They belonged together, she and he. After what they’d shared, he no longer had any doubts. For several minutes now she’d been slowly skimming her finger down the center of his chest and back up again. Occasionally she would trace a figure eight around his nipples. She might be recovering, not truly trying to arouse him, but his body was reacting just the same.
“What are you thinking?” he finally asked.
“About Elisabeth. I’m wondering if this was what Rockberry had promised her, or at the very least what she’d expected.”
“Did he get her with babe?”
“No, I don’t think so. If he did, it wasn’t obvious from looking at her. She arrived home in July and fell from the cliffs in September. Surely she would have shown by then.”
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