I melted at his words and his touch. His fingers slid into my channel at the same time his thumb worked my button. My hand flew to his forearm, clutching him in place, though I knew he would never leave me unsatisfied. Kit indulged himself for a moment, moving his strong fingers in the way he knew left me breathless but not purposefully enough to bring me to a peak. His hard cock nestled into the curve of my backside with half-hearted thrusts.
“What did you have planned?” he rumbled against my ear.
“Wha?”
“You had plans… I interrupted them,” he punctuated that statement with a swirl of his thumb.
Thoughts were a hazy, abstract concept—inconsequential compared to the tangible sparks of pleasure my husband wrought.
“Davina…”
“Frosting.”
“Frosting?”
“I thought to…”
The smile on my shoulder was another impressive one, paired with a rewarding curl of his fingers. “Davina… Did you want me to lick frosting off you?”
“Your cock—I thought to…” My breath came in sharp pants as my cunny gripped his fingers in time to his rhythm.
His chuckle was pleased and indulgent as his fingers and thumb found a steady—purposeful—rhythm. “Sounds sticky.”
And then, my wretched husband made the worst possible choice—he pulled his hand out of my breeches.
“Kit!”
“Shh.” Dexterous hands grabbed me by the waist and spun me before lifting and plopping me on the counter beside the fairy cakes.
“I have a suggestion,” he whispered before his lips met mine in a desperate kiss. “If it’s not to your liking, I’ll fetch the frosting myself—but you will need to be the one to call for a bath after. I refuse to explain to Mrs. Reed why we’re in need of a tub at this hour.”
His point was valid, if annoying, but I was more curious than irritated about his plan. Soft lips found mine again as his hand slid over the damp patch on my breeches. He drew back, catching my gaze with a significant look before tugging my shirt up to trail those same fingers over the peak of my breast. Comprehension dawned at the same moment his lips found my nipple.
My whimper was drowned out by his groan, the curve of his tongue more determined than his usual distracted teasing. Even as his hand moved to the other breast—his tongue following after. Kit’s groan against my nipple was an exquisite torture, sending shocks to my center.
When I was worshiped to his satisfaction, he pulled back, meeting my eyes. His pupils threatened to overtake his beautiful dark eyes. And then the corner of his lip curled up in challenge. My stomach clenched in anticipation—that expression had never once led to anything other than breath-stealing pleasure.
Kit raised his hand, the one still damp with my pleasure, to my lips. With one beautiful finger, he traced first my upper, then my lower lip before his crashed onto them. His kiss was messy, more a feast than a kiss in truth. But this taste… it was so familiar on his lips, nearly as familiar as his on my own.
When we broke apart, breathless, he chased my musk across my cheek, my jaw, my neck—wherever he’d traced in his distracted desperation.
“Kit,” I whined, dragging his attention back to me with both hands on his cheeks, my shirt falling back between us. I met his gaze with a nod and a whimpered, “Yes, Kit.”
His smile was pleased and bright—certainly a full one. My husband was always game for my breezy suggestions, participating with enthusiasm in all our bed sport. But his ideas were fewer and farther between, usually the result of far too much rumination and plotting. I made it a point never to deny his requests and he devoted himself to ensuring I was left boneless.
“You don’t even know what I’m planning,” he teased, voice low and ragged.
“Doesn’t matter.”
I slipped off the counter and shoved the fabric down my thighs to pool at my feet before gesturing to my husband to strip as well. He reached back with one hand, catching the back of his shirt before tugging it up and off in a way I always stopped to admire. Estate work and country living had left the lines of his chest even more refined than they were the first time I met them. I suspected at some point he had recognized my appreciation of his musculature—and hoisted a few extra hay bales as a reward. And appreciate them, I did.
My greedy hands fell to his shoulders, tracing down them to the corded muscles of his arms.
“Shirt first, then fondling,” he grumbled, his own fingers landing on my thighs, rucking the cotton up my hips and waist with calloused fingers.
“Kit,” I whined.
“Davina,” he mocked. “Take your shirt off, and then you can molest me until your heart is content.” Even as he teased, he wasdragging the shirt up my rib cage where it was trapped by my arms.
