But then I start, slowly at first, savoring the way she clings to me, so tight and wet.
Each thrust pulls a breathy moan from her lips, her fingers digging into my shoulders, clinging as if I might slip away. But there’s no chance of that. She feels too damn perfect wrapped around me like this.
“Please.” Her eyes are wide, urging me on. “Harder . . . oh god, please, harder.” Her hands slide down my back, nails biting into my skin.
“Patience, darling,” I murmur, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “Not everything has to be a rush.”
The first time with Daisy I’d been ravenous. Now I’ve got just enough grip on myself to drag this out, to savor every second of her unraveling.
She whimpers, a needy little sound that almost breaks me. “I can’t—I can’t take it.” Her nails bite deeper, her heat tightening around me, so close again she’s shaking.
I keep it slow, sliding my cock in and out.
“Self-control,” I say against her ear, “yields a far greater reward.”
I tilt her chin up, locking my gaze with hers—her eyes glassy with want—as I thrust again, unhurried, letting her feel every inch. She gasps, her lips parting, and I drink in the sight of this dark-haired, hazel-eyed vixen.
Until finally I’ve tortured us both enough.
With a groan that feels torn from my soul, I bury myself deep, filling her as I come undone. If this is my last moment on earth, I’ll go a happy man.
CHAPTER 32
Daisy
The brutal sound ofan alarm yanks me out of the most delicious dream.
A dream where I was draped across a four-poster bed in a swanky townhouse, by a man whose tongue was doing the lord’s work.
I groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow, willing it to stop. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
And then—
Oh.
Oh.
There’s a very warm, solid chest pressed up against my back. A muscular arm draped lazily over my waist. A firm, unmistakable shape nudging insistently against my bare ass—
Oh yes. Yummy.
My lips curl into a slow smile.
What a night.
I had more orgasms than I can count on my fingers; I need my toes too.
Behind me, there’s a sleepy groan, followed by shuffling as Edward’s arm leaves me—nooo, come back—and he fumbles to silence the alarm.
I roll over to face him, painfully aware that I have morning breath but deciding that I do not care.
Because Edward Cavendish is staring back at me, half awake, smiling softly.
I’m in Edward Cavendish’s bed.
Again.
And this time, it’s for all therightreasons.
