She stared at him with wide eyes. “I don’t care if he’s the king himself, I never would have married him. I love you.”
Her words whipped around him like a whirlpool, sucking him into the fiction he’d been playing at.
It was the opposite of everything she’d stood for in the past, and yet he’d never heard her sound so sincere.
As though sensing the change in the air between them, Archie leapt out of her arms and onto the bench beside her.
Their gazes locked, and she covered his hands with hers. “Nothing… no one compares to you.”
Never in his life had he been the object of so much affection.
“Tabetha.” Tangles of emotion flooded through him—caring, guilt, lust, and others he couldn’t begin to identify.
He had a hand on each of her knees now and slid them higher on her thighs.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
The image of her watching him, the memory of her hand gripping him, and the words she’d murmured ghosted through his mind. None of that had felt like pretend.
Slowly, he dragged his palms down until he was gripping her ankles.
All the while she watched him, lips parted, her eyelids heavy.
Stone gathered the material of her skirts in his fist and as he did so, dropped his gaze to appreciate her delicate feet, contoured calves, and then the sweetest knees, a tiny dimple on each. She edged them open in encouragement and his mouth watered. Everything about her aroused him. Even after his release last night, he’d struggled to sleep beside her.
He pushed her knees wider, anxious to give her the same relief she’d given him--anxious to finally see her climax. He’d learn what she liked, what made her squirm and beg for more.
Already, she was grasping the bench with her head tipped back, her breaths coming in little pants.
She was quickly becoming the woman of his dreams, which was dangerous, but in the moment he pushed her skirts out of his way, he would have risked everything to be with her.
Dark pink folds, delicate, swollen, and glistening. She was his. Only his.
“Touch me,” she begged this time.
“You’re so damn beautiful.” His own voice sounded barely recognizable. God, she was soft beneath his fingers—buttery velvet. She moved with his hand, slowly, gently at first. He slid inside, and she bucked against his palm.
“Let go, sweetheart.” He stroked her nub with his thumb, gliding in and out, and in, curling just so, gauging what she liked by her breathy little moans.
“Please.”
He reached deeper.
“Yes.”
Again.
Unable to resist, he leaned forward and touched her with his mouth.
Her hips lifted off the bench.
“Rock!”
He swiped his tongue along her seem, still stroking her inside. Her hands were in his hair, clutching him closer.
He loved her taste. It was warm, and silky, and earthy and it inflamed his other raging appetites.
But this was for her.
