Another smile touched her lips. He compelled so many from her.
She slid her hand up and down his length, savouring the feel of the soft skin over the hardness. The bead of moisture thatemerged from her ministrations. His back arched and he let loose a whispered curse that near singed the air. He smelt of salt and musk and something undeniablyOliverthat made her press her thighs together.
This was not new to her—Marlbury had guided her hand on him, that and more, but it had always been a dynamic of him dictating her motions to her.
Now, she could choose her own pace, whether to use one hand or two, and she experimented, listening for the changes in his breath.
“Emily,” he said. Close to a beg, half a groan.
She slid her hand along his length, letting it join her mouth, and his hips thrust. “Keep still,” she told him.
“Is that a command, my lady?”
A command. A shiver ran through her. “Yes.”
“Then I shall endeavour to obey.” This, it seemed, was delivered through gritted teeth. “Though you try my patience.”
“I have a suspicion you are enjoying your patience being tried.” Before he could answer, she brought him again into her mouth, and he gave up on words. His hand was white-knuckled around the iron bars now, his body trembling as he attempted to do as she’d commanded. The sight of him, prone before her and utterly under her control, sent another burst of need through her, and she climbed up his body, setting overtop him, her knees pressed against his side.
“Tell me if you are close,” she said, and wrapped her fingers around him. But instead of sinking down on him as he had no doubt expected—and wanted—she slid him through her folds. Again and again, back and forth, right where she needed him. She had never done anything like this before, but she liked the power of it, the sensation of him pleasuring her through her own hand.
The little of his skin she could see through his blindfold was flushed, and his breath came hot and fast. Heat flooded her body at the sight of his undoing, the tiny sounds he did his best to withhold. Faster than she ever thought possible, she too found herself at the brink.
“Emily,” he groaned. “Let me—”
“Wait.”
Once more, he did as she commanded, and she leaned down, one hand on the pillow by his head, the other between her legs, and pressed her mouth against his. He met her eagerly, hungrily, kissing her as though he had no other desire in his body. When she let out a mewling cry, her climax drawing near, he swallowed the sounds.
Still, he did not remove his hand from the iron of the bed. Her nipples scraped against his chest, just above where his injured arm lay, the friction sending sensation zinging through her, and at the spike of pleasure, she knew what she wanted.
“Touch me,” she said with the last of her air, a woman drowning.
He moved, reaching blindly for her, finding her face first and cupping it, to her surprise, with tender gentleness. Then he slid his hand down her throat to her chest, to her breasts, first one then the other, squeezing her nipple as she brushed his erection through her folds one final time.
She shuddered apart.
Oliver held her, his own muscles drawn taut, his own desire tangible even when she was lost in the midst of hers. She tasted his lips, his tongue, allowed him to draw her into his mouth, to muffle her cries as her arms shook. He wrapped his arm around her as she caught her breath, boneless, the tail end of pleasure still ricocheting through every limb.
“Shh,” he said, and she realised she was shaking still.
Splaying both hands across her chest, she braced herself, then took his hand in hers. “Touch me here,” she said, bringing that hand between her legs, allowing him to feel her slickness for himself. His fingers hesitated only for a second as they glided through her folds.
“Emily,” he said hoarsely. “You’re beautiful.”
“You can’t see me.”
His lips curved. “I know.”
A ludicrous thing to say, probably a compliment he had bestowed on countless other lovers—yet still a different sort of warmth bloomed in her chest.
A dangerous warmth.
To prevent him from saying more—or perhaps to prevent herself from feeling more—she finally positioned him at her entrance. There, she hovered, waiting for some sign that at this crucial moment, he would force himself inside. One thrust would be all it took; she was wet enough that there would be no real obstacle.
His fingers trembled against her sensitive pearl. His jaw feathered, and the light flickered. The candle was burning low, and she drank him in while she had the chance.
The light vanished, plunging them into darkness, and she sank all the way down in one smooth motion, seating him fully inside her.
