“No mercy,” she said, and stroked the length of him, his hips answering despite his effort to hold still.
“Damn it, if you keep that up, princess, our first time will be measured in seconds and shame.”
“No shame,” she whispered, thumb teasing him in a way that made him shut his eyes. But only for a moment.
He caught her wrist gently, guiding her hand from his breeches to his shoulder, but not before he gave it a quick kiss. “I need to ready you.”
“Oh, I’mready.”
Christ.
He slid his palm along her hip and coaxed her knee higher against his thigh, her skirts bunching between them. When his fingers found the swell of heat between her thighs, he stalled—just barely—breath locked in his chest.
Gentle, fool,gentle.
He eased one careful finger along her, inside her, slow enough to feel the tremor that answered his touch. Slick. Hot. God above, shewasready for him. The discovery nearly exploded his control in one shuddering instant.
A beautiful gasp reached his ears, her fingers tightened in his hair.
He watched her face as he circled his thumb, testing what drew that little hitch in her throat, what made her lashes flutter low. Every reaction was a map he’d study for the rest of his life.
She shivered. “Giles . . .”
“I know.” His forehead dropped to hers, their noses brushing.
He swore she muttered, “That doesn’t count.”
He pressed a second finger in, slow, coaxing her open, working her with remarkably patient attention. Not rushed, not rough, simplytherefor every flicker of sensation she gave him. Her body clenched around him. “That’s it,” he breathed against her ear. “You take me so sweetly.”
“Rogue,” she accused, yet still pushed into his hand. His thumb stroked again, this time firmer, and she broke on a moan so unguarded it made a home in his bones. Her fingers curled at his nape, dragging him closer. “More.”
“Soon,” he promised. He worked her gently, building her pleasure with maddening discipline, watching her awaken before him. Her head tipped back against the door, lips parted, his name on her lips.
“God help me,” he rasped, because she was unmade and unmaking him.
He needed to be inside her. Right bloody now. Bishop lifted her up, her legs wrapping around him, ankles crossing at his back.
He braced one arm to bear both their weight. “Hold me,” he said.
She did, fiercely, arms circling around his neck. He couldn’t be patient anymore. He guided his stiffness to her entrance, and with one swift push, he sank into her—tight, scorching, and so impossibly real his vision flashed white at the edges.
Her breath caught. “Oh.”
Thatohwas the most satisfying thing he’d heard in this lifetime. Even more satisfying than the wordhusbandon her lips, and he loved that. He loved her gasps more.
“Liss.” He gritted his teeth.
“Don’t you dare abandon me now,” she hissed.
He laughed. “Not on your life, princess.”
He withdrew a fraction and pressed back into heat that nearly unmanned him, a slow, steady stroke meant for tenderness, and failedimmediately, because she met him with a roll of her hips that made tenderness an absurdity. He set his forehead to hers and began to thrust, his lips finding a spot at her earlobe.
Her fingers slid into his hair and tugged, urging, demanding, hips rolling to meet every drive of his. The door rattled against her back with each stroke.
“More,” she breathed.
Ah, damnation.
