Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

“I slept very well, thank you.”

Her words were prim. Her breathing wasn’t. Neither were the little moans she couldn’t control as he touched her.

“No dreams?” he whispered, pushing down the duvet.

His eyes swept over her breasts. It was almost as if he were touching them; her nipples budded under his gaze.

“Because I dreamed,” he said. “I had some wonderful dreams.”

She gasped as he bent to her and closed his mouth around one nipple. The feel of his teeth and tongue was electric. Her body arched against his; her hand rose and cupped the back of his head.

His hand slid over her belly. Lower. Lower. His fingers danced over her labia. She gave a sharp little cry of surrender and her thighs fell open.

“I love the way your body melts under my hand.”

He shifted position. She was beneath him now. She loved lying beneath him. Loved the feel of his long, muscled body on hers.

His finger stroked into her.

She groaned.

He shifted position again. Just a little. Just enough for his erect penis to take the place of his finger and lightly kiss her flesh.

She cried out. Her hips lifted; she moved against him. He raised his head—he wanted to see her face as he made love to her—and she whispered “No” and used her hand to urge his mouth back to her breast.

He loved that about her. Her honesty.

He had been with enough women to sense when a moan was more about making the correct sound than about pleasure, when a touch was more about the performance than the emotion.

There was nothing false in Emily’s responses to him.

She was lost in his caresses. And he loved the way she gave herself over to him.

Only one difficulty. What she was doing right now, her cries, the shifting of her hips, the feel of her hands on him made him want to drive into her.

He would wait.

He wanted this to be all for her.

The problem was that each time they made love, he forgot that he was a man who watched and waited and never quite lost himself to the woman in his arms. A piece of him always stood outside, a cool observer of the action.

He seemed to have lost that ability.

The proof had come after they’d made love somewhere in the deepest, darkest part of the night.

After, he’d wrapped her in his arms. They’d fallen asleep with him still inside her. A minute, an hour, an eternity later, he’d jerked awake to a stunning reality.

He hadn’t used a condom. Not once. He hadn’t even thought of it.

He’d stared up at the ceiling, Emily warm in his embrace, telling himself he hadn’t just lost control, he’d lost his sanity.

She’d stirred against him.

“What’s the matter?” she’d said sleepily.

“I did not…” He’d cleared his throat. “Emily. I did not use a condom.”

“It’s all right. I should have told you. I’m on the pill.”