Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

“Stop,” she hissed. “The table will break.”

He simply looked at her, grinned, and thrust.

She grabbed his upper arms as he entered her, rough, sudden, searingly hot—and so good she had to bite his shoulder again.

“Someday,” he panted as he thrust again, his cock stretching her, filling her, “I’m going to take you in a place where you don’t have to be quiet. Where I can hear all your moans and little squeaks. Where I can make you scream.”

And he seated himself fully, his pelvis pressed to hers, her skirts in a wadded mess between them.

He started to withdraw slowly and she pounded on his back with both fists. “Move!”

He braced one hand on her hip and one on the wall and thrust in again, making the table knock against the wall.

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. He was hitting her just there, and it was marvelous, but at the same time the table’s knocking would bring someone soon. She groaned. She didn’t want to end this but there was no lock on the door.

“Put your legs around me,” he huffed in her ear, humid and hot.

“They’ll hear us.”

“Lily,” he groaned, “please do it, love.”

The endearment jolted through her, going straight to where he still shoved into her.

She wrapped her legs around him, as high as she could, and as she did, he grasped her bottom in both his hands and lifted her. She clung to him, impaled on his penis, the position so obscene she should’ve fainted from just the thought.

Instead she nearly came.

He leaned his shoulders back against the wall and moved his big hands to her waist. She watched as his eyes shuttered, his face going slack with sensuous want as he lifted and lowered her on his cock, using her as a tool to pleasure himself.

Each pull upward was a draw against her most sensitive flesh. Each jolt down a powerful slam of pleasure.

He was driving her insane, driving her with need, and she wasn’t sure she could keep from screaming.

He must’ve known her peril, for his eyes opened, his pupils large and black, and he looked at her. “Kiss me.”

He couldn’t do it himself, she realized. He was using all his strength to keep them both upright against the wall.

She leaned forward, feeling like a doll in his strong arms, and placed her closed lips against his, a chaste, gentle kiss, even as his flesh plundered hers below. She was swollen and wet, so heated with want that she wasn’t sure it could ever end. Maybe she didn’t want it to end. Maybe she wanted him to fill her forever, to just keep ramming her with that long, thick, perfect cock until she became insensible. He could thrust into her all night long and when she woke he’d still be screwing her, his body hard and everlasting, hers wet and wanting.

But it couldn’t last forever, that was a fevered fantasy born of heat and his smell, and when he began losing his rhythm, she reached between them, pinching her clitoris with two fingers.

He watched her, his lips curled. “You… you’re…”

She leaned close and whispered against his sweaty neck. “I’m touching myself. Pleasuring myself as you fuck me.”

He gritted his teeth and the tendon in his neck stood out in stark relief.

She felt his come flooding her, seeping out around his penis.

And when she climaxed herself, she bit down on that tendon, tasting salt. Tasting life.

GREAVES HOUSE WAS a dreary mansion.

Trevillion looked up at the darkened edifice as he helped Lady Phoebe and her elderly cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood, from their carriage. Only one lantern was lit at the door—either from miserliness or because their host wasn’t particularly welcoming.

“Oof,” Miss Picklewood muttered as she made the gravel drive. “Well, ’tisn’t a lovely place, but I expect the play shall be quite good.”

“It was very nice of Mr. Greaves to invite us,” Lady Phoebe chided. “He doesn’t even know us and I’m sure it was merely a courtesy to Hippolyta. Actually, it’s a lovely coincidence that he even found out we were staying in Bath.”