She moved over him, relying once more on her instinct. She arched her back, grinding her core upon his breeches-clad member. It was the part of him that should go inside her, if they were lovers. If he were her husband.
He was not.
Nor were they lovers, she reminded herself.
And yet…
How good it felt.God, how good it felt. She rocked against him with greater purpose as the need inside her continued to build. Wetness gathered between her thighs. She could feel how slick she was, and she was certain she must be coating his breeches. They were fawn, of fine quality, and she did not care.
All she did care about was seeking the satisfaction only he could give her.
“My God, Belle,” he said again, his hands finding her waist.
She realized, quite belatedly, and somehow through the fog of desire permeating her mind, that she had never answered him the first time. He had asked her a question, had he not? Yes, he had. But she could not remember what it had been now. Not with him beneath her, not with her atop him, not with their bodies separated by only the thin barrier of fabric.
Scarcely anything at all.
She found a particularly responsive part of herself, jerking when she brushed herself over his length. Pleasure spiked through her, sharp and unexpected. Wanting more of it, greedy for it, she moved again. His fingers dug into her sides as he gripped her, helping her to move, to angle herself over him.
“Oh, Gill,” was all she could manage to say.
The pleasure was too intense. Too overwhelming. She could do nothing but writhe over him, riding him, driving them both ever closer to…something. To the pinnacle she had only read about. To the mindless, sated bliss. She wanted that. He wanted that. She knew it without having to ask.
But then, his fingers somehow found their way beneath her skirts. And they found, unerringly, the part of her that was hungriest. She cried out and slammed her mouth down on his.
He had onlyintended to come here to inquire after her ankle. To reassure himself she was not suffering from too much pain. But somehow, in spite of all his good intentions, Christabella was in his lap, and his hand was beneath her gown. She had just been riding his cock through his breeches, and the falls of them were kissed with her dew.
His fingers explored. Parted her. She was slick and hot. A dream. Familiar, too. His, all his. He circled her pearl with his forefinger, exerting more pressure than he had the last time. There was no hesitance in him now. Only hunger. He learned her, listening to the sweet hitches in her breath that told him when she liked what he did. To the throaty cries and the jerk of her hips that told him she wanted more.
And he gave her more.
He wanted to make her spend. Wanted to feel her lose herself. Wanted to watch as pleasure rushed over her and she became helpless and mindless. Their lips met once more and clung, this kiss more passionate even than all the others that came before. Although it had been mere hours since their sultry interlude in the writing room, he was on fire for her.
His entire body vibrated with the need to be one with her. A need he could not fulfill, a desire he could not yet quench. Because she was not his wife. She had not even agreed to marry him yet. The reminder should have quelled some of the lust raging inside him. It should have made him pluck her off his lap and put some necessary distance between them.
But he did not. Because she brought him to life in a way he had never imagined possible. She made him believe, for the first time, that happiness would not forever hover beyond his reach. That he was stronger than the affliction which had chased him all his life.
Faster and faster he worked over the swollen bud. His hand was coated in the evidence of her desire. She moved with him, undulating her hips and thrusting over him in a delicious rhythm. Their kiss turned voracious. He was almost on the edge himself, his cock aching after the way she had moved over him. His ballocks were drawn tight, white-hot desire licking down his spine.
She was ready.
Gill did not know how he knew, for he was a novice at pleasuring a woman. Perhaps it was the way she sped up. Or the way she cried out into his mouth. Or the way she slammed her cunny against him frantically, as if they could become one with this single act alone.
He circled her pearl, rubbing harder.
Until she stiffened, her body shuddering. She moaned. It was the most erotic sound he had ever heard in his bloody life. He ate up that moan. Ate up her kiss. Her lips. Continued pleasuring her even as need hummed through him, threatening to make him lose control.
She never stopped kissing him, rocking into his touch. Her cunny was even wetter now than it had been before. Ready. He wondered what it would feel like to slide deep inside her. Inside her heat, her wetness. It would be bliss, he had no doubt. The sort that would tear him asunder.
And he could not wait.
But he would not breach her, not until she was his in truth. As badly as he longed to further explore her, he would not. Not even with his fingers. She would be his wife before he would go that far, he vowed it.
Which reminded him.
He tore his mouth from hers and drank in the sight of her. Christabella’s lips were swollen, her jaw slack, eyes closed. She was flushed and disheveled and delicious. He had done that to her. And he loved it.
Her eyes fluttered open. Her gaze met his, the flush on her cheeks deepening to a shade that rivaled her bold locks.
