When he spoke again, his words sounded pained, as though he was fighting to maintain control and losing. “I know this is wrong, beyond unethical, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her lungs seized. “Me?”
“Who else?”
Her cheek pressed against the rough wood surface, and the memory of him against the small library door, kissing and caressing her, sent fiery desire clambering down her spine. Her hips rolled of their own accord, craving friction, her core clenching around emptiness. “What do you think of?”
He groaned, and what must have been his head thumped against the door. “Marigold…”
Every instinct told her to apologize, to retreat. But she stood her ground, her curiosity clawing at her insides. She needed to know if what she felt was reciprocated.Tell me, she thought, as close as she would get to speaking.Please tell me.
“I think of you, that night.” He must have been against the door because she heard him clearly. “You were—areso beautiful. I wish—”
He broke off, and her heart skittered. “What d-do you wish?” she asked after a long hesitation.
“I wish I’d known you were going to leave.” The words sounded like he’d dragged them over broken glass. “I would have gone slower. I would have savored you.”
The heat that had been building in her core poured over, and arousal rushed between her thighs. “Savored me? How?”
“Made you come more, that’s for sure.”
More?She’d barely survived their first encounter, but she wanted more, wanted more then and now. Something elemental and single-minded took control of her tongue and bypassed her mind entirely. “That night, you said you wanted to t-taste me.”
He muttered an oath. “Only one of my regrets.”
She swallowed down her fear. “What did you mean? You did kiss me.” Her hands were dragging over her thighs, and she allowed herself to pull up the borrowed nightdress, let the cool air soothe her heated flesh. Everything was too sensitive, too raw, the slick between her legs hot on her fingertips.
“God, not like that. I wanted to spread your legs wide, Marigold, lick your sweet pussy until you came on my tongue.” He paused to pull in a ragged breath. “Is that what you wanted me to say?”
Her legs trembled, and she slid down the surface of the door until she sat on the wooden planks, her knees bent and thighs open. “Yes,” she breathed, realizing how truthful it was, how safe she was to speak to him like this. “T-tell me more.”
His hum was luxurious, intoxicating, and crept under her skin until she was drunk with it. “That dark room, I hated it. I couldn’t see you, your gorgeous breasts, that beautiful pussy of yours. I have to imagine.”
In any other moment she’d be conscious of how the flesh around her belly sagged, the fine spiderwebs of lines that criss-crossed her breasts. But not now, not when he made her sound like a sensual goddess worthy of his praise.
“I’m aching,” she breathed, shocking herself with her words, but knowing he wouldn’t judge her for it.
“Fuck, Marigold. Is the door locked?”
“Yes.” Her fingers itched to release it, to throw the door wide and allow him in, give him access to her, light all the bloody lamps in the room and let him explore her until she was boneless, weightless, a vessel for pleasure and nothing more.
“Thank god. I don’t trust myself, not with you.”
Now she was desperate to open the door, but the last vestiges of her common sense held firm, as did the lock.
“I wish I was with you,” she said, grateful he couldn’t see the flush crawling up her face. “I wish I could touch you.”
“Touch yourself for me.” His words were breathless, pained, as though he too were holding on to the last strands of his control, each of them fraying with alarming alacrity. “Are you wet, love?”
Her fingertips had been creeping up the inside of her thighs, and with a fast exhale, she swept them over the heated flesh between her legs. She dipped a finger around the rim of her channel, and a mewl escaped her lips. “Yes, so wet.”
“Touch your nub. Touch it for me. Does it feel good?”
She hissed, her breath heaving as she caressed the throbbing bundle of nerves buried in her folds, already swollen and aching for friction. “Oh…”
“That’s so good. God, I’m aching for you.”
“Are you touching yourself?” Lord, who was the woman who asked that question, without a single stutter, but she needed to know. She wished she was the one with her hands on his flesh, watching his face contort with pleasure.
