God, it felt heavenly.
Divine.
This wasn’t the first time he’d been desperate to slake his lust, but the first time with Scarlett satisfied more than his aching cock. What proved most shocking was that he’d been unable to wait, unable to address his meticulous need to wear protection. Delving into a drawer to unwrap the French letter, blowing into it to ensure there were no holes, seemed less important than the need to claim this woman as his own.
Of course, nothing would make him spill his seed inside her.
Nothing, except for exchanging marriage vows and scribbling proof in the parish register.
The minx straddling his thighs was about to come up on her knees, and so he gripped her waist and held her in place. Impaled. His.
“Wait for a moment.” His words were a husky whisper.
“Wait? Why?” Panic flashed in her eyes, and she put her hand over the scar above her breast. “Is something wrong?”
“Far from it. I want to feel you, feel your heat surround me.” No matter how many times he’d envisioned this moment, nothing prepared him for the stimulating sensation of her muscles hugging him tightly.
“Does this have something to do with your fear of fathering a child out of wedlock? We don’t have to continue.” Her actions betrayed her words when she splayed her hands on his chest, came up on her knees and sank slowly down to swallow his cock.
“God damn.” The need to pound hard, to hear the audible slap that would feed his arousal, came upon him suddenly. Hell, he was always the one in control. He said how. He said when. He took what he wanted, gave little, just enough to maintain his rakish reputation.
“You feel so good, Damian,” his bewitching temptress said as she rode him at an achingly slow pace that had nothing to do with nerves. Each delicious slide drew him deeper into the majesty of the moment.
While still riding him, she reached up into her hair, pulled out the pins and shook the ebony tendrils loose. The silken locks danced over the alabaster skin on her shoulders. He wondered if she’d done it to hide the scar. Then she leant forward, thrust her luscious breasts towards his mouth and rode him like she was a few furlongs behind in the race.
“Bloody hell.” Never in his life had he been claimed so fiercely. Yet for the first time, he no longer felt the same sense of isolation.
The bed creaked. The headboard smacked against the wall.
The guttural moan from his mouth would awaken the dead, let alone alert the servants. He would explode inside her if he didn’t do something quick.
Wrapping his arm around her waist, he rolled her onto her back. Before she could protest, he settled between her thighs and lavished her sex with deserved attention. A man as depraved as Lord Steele did not care about his wife’s pleasure.
He lapped the evidence of her arousal as his tongue flicked back and forth. Two fingers mimicking the thrust of his cock brought her to a blinding climax.
“Damian!” The sweet cry of ecstasy was like music to his ears. The muscles in her core clamped around his damp fingers.
He did not give her time to climb down from the dizzying heights but positioned himself at her entrance and pushed home. A wave of ecstasy rippled through him. How was it possible to feel sated when he was yet to reach his climax?
Every instinct cried for him to rush, to ram hard, ram deep.
His angel lay there, her hair splayed across the coverlet, her lips swollen, the hazy look of desire swimming in her eyes, and he could not think of a time when he’d seen something so beautiful.
Suddenly, this wasn’t about his wants, his need to make love to the only woman he’d ever truly desired. It had nothing to do with a rake claiming the only woman to elude him.
It was about her.
Every remarkable aspect.
Damian leant forward, squashing her breasts against his chest, and kissed her with a passion that went beyond lust. Then he withdrew from her body slowly, almost entirely, before pushing deep inside her again. His pleasure came from watching her lips part on a gasp, from watching her eyes flash hot with excitement.
He continued this slow, teasing torture even when her dainty hands clasped the muscles on his back and urged him to quicken the pace. Even when she arched and writhed beneath him.
“You
’re mine.” The words tumbled out of his mouth as he angled his hips so he could rub against her sex with each thrust.
“I’m yours,” she cried, her pants accompanied by pretty moans.