On a sharp gasp, the breath caught in her lungs, and she went tense. With few more flicks of his tongue, release seized her and she was crying out and her quim was pulsing against his mouth, around his finger, as he stayed with her through the end of her climax, his own breath gone ragged, the blood stirred in his veins. He angled back, releasing her leg and allowing her skirts to fall. Her breath was coming hard in evaporating white puffs, her eyes closed.
Oh, but she was a vision of molten, sated femininity.
And he wanted more of her.
Giving her pleasure—bringing her to release—satisfied one hunger within him only to awaken another.
Her eyes fluttered open and found his. “Do you want me to reciprocate?”
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting her to say, but it wasn’t that.
He pushed off the ground and came to his feet. “That was about you.”
The words came at a price—the severe displeasure of his cock.
Her head canted, a smile curled one side of kiss-crushed lips he wanted nothing more than to taste again. “You were pretty good at being a rake, I reckon.”
“I reckon I was.”
She exhaled a nearly soundless laugh.
Except when he’d been a rake, he’d been more concentrated on how he felt than how his partner felt. Oh, he would leave her feeling good—better than good, in fact—but that was all surfaces, wasn’t it?
What he’d done with Tilly was about places deeper than surfaces.
It wasn’t about feeling in one way, but a multitude of ways.
A confusion of ways, if he was being honest.
He was opening his mouth to start in on all this when she said in a near whisper, utterly serious, “That was a first for me.”
Rhys felt his brow furrow. She’d been with other men. He knew that. So, what had been a first about what they’d just done?
As if she could hear his thoughts, she said, “I’ve never—” Her gaze caught on a point over his shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. “Is that…?” Her eyes went wide. “Whitty?”
Rhys twisted around, his gaze searching the avenue beyond their little, magical copse of trees, when it landed on a figure staggering across the open pitch. He supposed it could be…
“Can’t be arsed a whit!” the man shouted to no one in particular.
No disputing the fact.
It was Whitty, all right.
Rhys turned back to Tilly.
“I think we must go and help him,” she said, the voice of reason.
Except Rhys didn’t feel like being helpful or reasonable.
He wanted to stay right here with Tilly.
He wanted to talk about this confusion of feelings rioting through him.
But he’d begun the night with the intention of helping Whitty and now he supposed it was his duty to see it through.
Right.
He turned back to Tilly to find her tying the laces of her cloak.
