Besides, no one could study classical art without seeing a cock or seven.
But all those Renaissance-era phalluses? Those little wee things hiding shyly behind fig leaves?
Nothingcompared to finally having Bull’s cock in her hand!
Rosie slid her palm along its smooth hardness, curling her fingers around the head, brushing the bead of moisture across the tip. With a little wiggle Bull’s trousers fell a bit farther until they were held up only by that tight arse of his, and she was able to hold him with both hands.
With a gasp of delight, Rosie wrenched her mouth away from his, only so she could nudge him back a bit and glance down.Fook, seeing her own hands stroking his cock? She feltpowerful. Seductive. Alluring. And when he moaned and dropped his head forward so his long auburn hair covered his eyes?
She wanted to crow with victory.
“You feel good, Bull,” she whispered, wanting to be as crude as he had been a moment before. “I want to make you feel good. Am I…you might have to tell—do you like this?” She slid both hands along his length hopefully. “Am I doing it right?”
“Fook me,” her man rasped. “If ye do it any better, love, I might die.”
Rosie felt herself grinning. “Yes, I thinkthatis what I would like.” Slowly, Bull lifted his head so that intense gray gaze met hers, and she smirked in clarification. “I would likeyoutofook me.”
Holding his gaze, she swiped her thumb over the tip of his cock, then lifted the unsteady hand. Knowing she had his attention, Rosie made a show of licking his wetness off the pad of her thumb, swirling her tongue around the digit.
Bull had frozen, his hips canted forward into her other fist, his breathing slow and steady. She saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes, then a slight wince pull at the corners of his eyes. He closed those eyes, exhaled, and when he opened them, she sawacceptancethere.
Yes!Yes.
He stepped away from her, pulling his cock from her hold and reaching for his trousers. Rosie was already leaning forward eagerly…when he yanked them back up again and buttoned them with efficient movements.
“Wha—” she began, but that was all she was able to say before he reached for her nightgown and yanked it up and over her head.
“Bull!” Her objection was muffled as they fought with the serviceable cotton. “What are you—pfft. What?—”
“There.” He nodded with satisfaction as he stepped back to leave her nude, holding her nightrail in one hand, his hungry gaze sweeping over her. His eyes lingered on the ring he’d given her, now hanging from a ribbon dangling between her breasts “Ye’re a piece of fooking art, Rose.”
She resisted the urge to cover herself in embarrassment, although she suspected she might look a bit like a tomato. Or one of her mother’s damask pink roses.
In an effort to hold onto that feeling of power she had so reveled in, she planted her hands on her hips and scowled. “Fookingart, Bull? Hmmm? Why are you wearing so many clothes, then, pray?”
Fine, it was only one article of clothing—his trousers—but it was one too many. Bull didn’t reply, but he did smile wickedly and step forward once more, dropping her nightgown and reaching for her.
She went eagerly, wrapping her arms around his neck, not caring what his explanation was—not if it meant she could press her naked body against him. But he bent, slid his hand behind her knees, and lifted her. Surprised at the sudden change in trajectory, she squealed and tightened her hold on him.
But that didn’t stop her from flying through the air—did he throw her?—and bouncing on the mattress. Rosie was breathless from silent laughter as she pushed herself up on her elbows to face him…only to have Bull press her back down into the mattress, his mouth slamming down to cover hers.
Oh, well, if you insist…
His mouth was everywhere—her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone—as his hands mapped her body with reverent touches. Bull’s calloused palms slid over her ribs, along her waist, gripping her hips as he pressed her into the mattress with his weight.
“Ye’re so soft,” he murmured against her skin, his lips brushing the swell of her breast. “Perfection. Damnit, Rose, ye’re a masterpiece, a Monet.”
Did he not realize that, up close, Monet’s works were just a series of paint splotches? She felt like that—disjointed, frantic…
Rosie’s hands roamed over his arching back, feeling the muscles bunch and flex beneath her fingers. She traced the ridges of his spine, found unexpected scars, dragged her nails across his shoulders, threaded her fingers through his damp hair. Every touch seemed to make him groan, and she loved the sound of his abandon.
Bull’s mouth closed once more around her nipple, capturing the delicate bud, and she arched up off the bed with a gasp. His tongue circled the peak, flicking over it before his teeth scraped across the sensitive flesh. The sensation shot straight to her core, and she felt herself growing wetter.
Again.
“Bull, please?—”
“Shhh,” he soothed, switching to her other breast, knowing how to answer her unspoken craving. “I’ve got ye, love.”
