Because his Rose was stretched out across his body, her cheek resting on his shoulder, her palms pressed on his chest, and her cunny…
Dear Christ on the Cross, her cunny.
Bull did his best to keep his breathing even. Hedefinitelykept his eyes closed. Because if his Rose was awake, he didn’t want her to know he was too. He didn’t want to do anything which would cause her to stop.
Stop the delightful movements she was so clearly enjoying.
His cock was rock-hard. It would have been standing straight up, had it not been pressed against his stomach by the woman above him. The woman whose cunny—her hot, dripping cunny—was rubbing up and down his hard length.
And each time she rocked in her erotic dreaming, she whimpered with pleasure.
His Rose’s lips were parted against his skin, and as she gyrated, eyes closed and lost in the dream, one hand moved down his side and the other to his upper arm, squeezing. Holding him in place.
As if he’d move?Bull swallowed down his groan, resisting the urge to flex his hips up, thrusting his cock against her sweet, soaked curls.
Instead, he fisted the sheets in his hands, trying desperately to keep from reaching for her, waking her.
That’s right, lass. Use my cock. Make yerself feel good.
His Rose moaned again, her breaths coming faster as she rocked against him. Her palm reached his hip, and when her fingers curled around it to hold herself in place, he shuddered.
This was almost too much.
Thank fook she was wearing—what the shite was she wearing? Something soft and billowy, something which was still between them. If he’d been able to feel her soft curls directly? If his cock had been able to slide along her wetness, instead of just feeling the sticky patch of the linen?
Christ, he would have come then and there.
As it was, Bull was strugglinghardto remember why he shouldn’t take control of this. Shouldn’t roll her over and press her into the mattress and wake her and show her how he felt with his tongue and his lips and his cock. Show her how special she was.
Because shewasspecial. This was Rose Hayle—hisRose. Sometime during that masquerade ball—fook him, had it only been a few days ago?—he’d stopped thinking of her as a younger cousin. He’d stopped thinking of her as alassie.
It had been that kiss.
His fingers tightened in the sheets. Why the fook had he gone and thought about that kiss? Because now he was even closer to the edge and if this didn’t end soon?—
Miracle of miracles Rose stiffened, pressed herself against him with her hold on his hip, and bucked once—twice, with a soft little cry. She was coming against his cock, coming apart on his length and he couldn’t even feel it. All he knew was the feel of her mouth against his skin, the sound of her pleasure, the sweet sleepy agony of her release…
It was fooking magical, is what it was.
Bull wondered how he was supposed to go back to sleep—was he? She’d just climaxed in his arms—he’dmadeher climax—and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and kiss her senseless. Wanted to taste her in all places.
“Bull?” she murmured, and he stiffened.
Stiffenedmore.
Because she’d sounded confused…out of sorts. Had she been entirely unaware through that? Nay, surely not. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing regular…and felt her push herself up, her breathing still stuttered as she woke up and realized what she’d done.
What she’d enjoyed.
And she thought he was still asleep, and wasn’t sure what to do.
So Bull, thinking fast, began to move slightly and smack his lips and twist his head side to side; all the not-quite-romantic motions of a man just waking up. He made ashow of stretching his arms, twisting his neck, and by the time he’d hummed, “Mmm, Rose?” she’d scrambled to roll off him and place a respectable distance between them.
And he wondered if she was thinking about that wet spot on her bloomers as hard as he was.
“Bull?” She sounded hesitant, but not at all asleep. “Are you?—”
“Good morning,” he announced, then made a show of realizing it was still dark. “Or is it the middle of the night?”
