His face was stoic. “Yes.”
The soft sac below. She touched it, held it in her hand like he had held her breasts. He groaned.
“Is this sensitive as well?”
“Yes, but not as much.”
And now she looked at his legs. Long. Really, extraordinarily long. And unlike her own legs, she could see his muscle under the skin. She ran her hands down his thighs, feeling the dark, sparse hair and the bone of his knees.
“Shall I lift my hooves for you?” he asked. “Like I’m Zephyr?”
“Later,” she said, smiling. “Would you turn around?”
He turned. A golden back. Narrow again but straight and strong so it did not look as vulnerable as it might have, otherwise. And his arse was . . . well, it was the most adorable thing. The cheeks were small and pert.
Maybe she had better never tell her husband his arse was adorable. Becauseadorablewas for Nathaniel.
Arousinghad to be the word for Oliver. His body was the body that had taken her flailing, young need and sharpened it to a point where he was the exemplar of male beauty. The nonesuch. He had made it so any tall, thin, masculine silhouette caused her heart to beat rapidly. But when it was his, her thighs would clench together and her nipples would harden.
He embodied her desire. He had embodied her desire as long as she had had desire.
“Are you finished now?” he said softly, still facing away, shifting his weight from one foot to the other so the cheeks of his bottom flexed.
“Not yet.” She took her chemise up and over her head. “Now.”
He pivoted. For a few seconds, his eyes were coolly appraising and then they turned a bit wild. One of his hands went to his cock and he stroked himself, seemingly unaware he was doing it in front of her.
“Oh, my God, you’re so beautiful, and I want you so badly.”
“Well then,” she said, sliding away from the edge of the bed. “It’s a good thing you’re married to me.”
He put one knee on the mattress. “You make me desperate for you.”
“I like to see you desperate.” She lay back and opened her arms. “But there’s no need.”
He came to her, pressing his whole body against hers, kissing her. As he clenched her hair in one hand and, with the other, touched her breasts, the soft folds of her belly, her thighs, he murmured nonsense between his kisses. Words likegoddessanddecadentandyou forever.
He settled his hand between her legs.
“I know so little about pleasing you,” he rasped. “Tell me.”
“Put your finger in me . . . like it’s your . . . cock,” she said and hid her red face in his shoulder.
He slid his finger into her folds. “You’re so wet here, Henrietta.” His finger found her entrance, and his mouth descended on her nearest breast, and he began to suckle at her nipple again.
She clenched down immediately as his finger entered her. She was so hungry to be filled by him.
“Oh, yes,” she moaned. “I’m ready.”
“Not yet, Mrs. Hartwell.” He added another finger. “How does that feel?” He moved the fingers in and out and suckled again at her breast.
“It feels . . . it feels like it should be your cock. Please, Oliver.”
“Shall I take you from behind as I promised you?”
“I don’t care . . . yes.”
Before she knew what was happening, he was pulling her away from the center of the mattress, propping her up on her knees so her back end faced the edge of the bed. And then he was off the bed and standing behind her, both of his hands on her hips, and she could feel his hard phallus in the crack between her cheeks and then sliding against the wetness of her inner lips.
