He kissed her breast, her nipple, her shoulder. Everywhere his lips could land. It was as if he could not kiss her enough, and she did not mind. His adoration filled her with new fire. Made her forget about what would come after this night. After she had to leave him.
Leveraging himself on one forearm, he reached between their bodies. Slowly, he parted her folds, and when he stroked her pearl, her hips bucked instinctively toward him, seeking more as white-hot pleasure bolted through her. His lips grazed over her ear, his breath falling hotly on her throat and making her shiver.
“So wet for me, Em.” He stroked her with greater pressure, his thumb working over her nub while his fingers played lower, finding the hidden entrance between her folds. He teased her with gentle pressure, stimulating her in a new way that had her writhing against him, a gasp of pleasure spilling from her lips.
Just when she thought he would send her careening over the edge, however, he withdrew, leaving her aching and wanting. Frustrated, she moved against him, seeking more.
“Patience, sweetheart.” He caught her earlobe in his teeth and tugged, then licked the whorl and the secret place behind it she had never known was so sensitive until him. “I want to make this as good for you as I can.”
She did not want to be patient. She was restless, desperate with wanting.
“It is good,” she reassured him.
He groaned into her neck and then nipped the tender flesh there, before guiding himself between her legs. This time, instead of his fingers on her pearl, she felt the hot, sleek tip of his cock gliding against her swollen bud. Repeatedly, he slicked himself over her, the wet sounds of his actions echoing in the quiet of the chamber, mingling with their ragged breaths.
She held him to her tightly, the smooth planes of his strong back searing her fingertips as they moved up and down, urging him to proceed. To take more of her. To make her his at last.
“Too good,” he murmured. “I want you so bleeding badly, and I do not want to hurt you. Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Stopping him was the last thing in her mind. But his concern for her sent a fresh wave of warmth washing over her.
Emma kissed his cheek, his jaw. “Take me now.”
Another groan tore from him, the low sound raw yet like velvet to her senses. And then he guided his cock lower, finding the place where she ached and longed to be filled. The pressure was strangely pleasant as he eased himself into her, moving with painstaking torpor. How natural it felt. How right and wondrous.
“Yes,” she said to him, the only word she could manage, voice thick and throaty with need. “Make me yours.”
“Bleeding hell,” he growled. “You are mine.”
He pushed deeper. There was a brief hint of discomfort as her body adjusted to the intrusion, stretching for his thick length as he thrust again. She moved to meet him this time, pumping her hips beneath him in welcome.
“How does it feel?” he asked, his voice sounding strained as he held himself still, his countenance tense with the evidence of his restraint.
“Perfect,” she said truthfully. “You feel so good inside me, Hart.”
At her words, he jerked forward again, thrusting. One more pump of his hips, and they were completely joined, the weight of his large, muscled body on hers so sinfully decadent that she wished she could hold him here like this, inside her, their skin pressed together from hip to chest, forever. She pulsed around him, the pinch of his initial entry receding, leaving in its place nothing but the brilliance of pleasure, searing and sweet.
“God, you feel so damned good around me, so hot and wet,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “I need to move.”
“Then move,” she urged.
He did not wait for further invitation. Instead, he claimed her mouth with his and kissed her, ravishing her with his lips and tongue as he slid nearly completely from her before gliding back inside her again. And the new rhythm he created was even more wonderful than before. The friction heightened her pleasure, until she was desperate for more. In and out he went, moving faster, aided by the wetness shamelessly seeping from her. She held on to him, nails digging into his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his hips to bring herself even nearer.
And oh how he claimed her, how he made love to her. With his lips never leaving hers, he increased his pace. Faster. Harder. He made love to her furiously, and it was beautiful and frenzied. The knot inside her was tightening again. As he plunged into her, his body rubbed against her highly sensitive bud with each stroke. She cried out, convulsing around him as the strongest rush of pleasure yet took her.
His strokes were shorter, faster, almost furious, until suddenly, he withdrew, gripping himself, tearing his lips from hers as he spent into the bedclothes, his seed spurting from his rigid length. He made a low sound, his expression contorted, and she was not sure if it was pleasure or pain, or both. She lay there, watching him, body humming with the gratification of his possession, her cunny clenching in tiny lingering spasms as the last of her own crisis ebbed. He remained as he was, still gripping himself, until the final throes of his own pinnacle receded.
“Bleeding hell.” His breathing was ragged, his chest covered in a fine sheet of sweat in the aftermath of their exertion as he rose on his knees above her. “I’ve never…that was…Christ.”
A fine trickle of blood traced down his abdomen, seeping from the unevenly stitched wound. Her heart leapt at the sight, worry for him supplanting all else.
“Your injury,” she said, rising onto her elbows as her wits returned to her, banishing the languor of her passion. “You have hurt yourself.”
He glanced down at his abdomen, scowling. “It ain’t anything.”
“It is.” She scrambled from the bed, rushing to the wash basin and pitcher on the unsteady legs of a newly birthed foal. Every part of her felt different. But Hart was what concerned her most. His welfare was her primary motivator. She took up a cloth and dipped it in the cool water before returning to the bed where he had collapsed to his back, naked and glorious. If she had been gifted with paints, she would have wished to capture him thus: the picture of a roguish sinner, handsome and flushed from the aftermath of pleasure, his injury a stark reminder of the life he lived. But she had never been particularly clever with watercolors; her gift was in her singing voice, much good it did her now.
And so she hastened forward, joining him on the bed again, and cleansed the blood gently from his side.
“You needn’t do that,” he said, his voice lazy, his countenance almost sleepy in the aftermath of what they had shared.
Tenderness stole through her for this man who had somehow become so much a part of her life. She had never imagined it possible to possess such a depth of feeling for another, but their lovemaking had left her feeling agonizingly, beautifully raw, her awareness of life itself fresh.
Emma glanced up at him. “I want to.”
And that was when she realized she had done the most foolish thing she could have possibly done.
She had fallen in love with Hart Sutton, a man who could never truly be hers.