Page 30 of The Boxer’s Belle

Bella’s fingers threaded in his hair as her other hand bumped along his spine.

His lips trailed down, tongue dipping into the divot at the base of her neck—saltier there, addicting. And then, then West did the thing he’d thought about more often, and for much longer than he ought to have.

He claimed her nipple between his lips.

Four perfect fingernails dug into his back as she gasped his name, arching into his mouth. His cock gave an appreciative throb at the sound. Shamefully, he was rutting against her thigh like an animal, but he couldn’t have stopped for the world. He set about driving her as mad as he was.

Both of her hands slid down his flank and snuck beneath his breeches, grasping his arse.

He groaned her name against the breast he was worshiping. She slid her hands around to the front of his falls and began working the buttons as he traced the underside of her breast with his tongue. There were new freckles here—he’d never paid enough attention to the stars to name their constellation.

“Bella,” he warned, as she popped another button.

“Miles,” she chirped back, then shoved the fabric down his waist.

And then her smooth, exquisite hand found his cock.

He pulled back to catch her gaze. “Fu— Bella, Bella, Bella. What are you⁠—”

“I should think it obvious.” With her free hand, she shoved his breeches as far down his thighs as she could reach, the other working along his prick. He made the fundamental mistake of glancing down to see that magnificent hand working along his reddened flesh.

It was clear she was inexperienced; she explored, her touch tentative and unpredictable. But nothing had ever felt better. And the sight, the sight would live with him as long as he had breath. Those elegant fingers danced over his flesh…

His tongue darted out to wet his impossibly dry lips as his gaze flicked to her. Her attention was fixed on her hand, teeth gnawing on her lip.

“Tell me what to do.”

“I… You don’t need to⁠—”

She shook her head, umber eyes catching his. “Tell me what to do,” she repeated.

West swallowed, heart hammering away. With a shuddering breath, he wrapped one of his hands around hers. The difference was stark—silky smooth, pale skin engulfed by rough, tanned flesh—stark and erotic. There was no mistaking Arabella Sinclair for anything other than a lady. And that lady’s hand was on his cock.

Together, they worked him up and down at the tempo and pressure he preferred.

She gave an experimental twist of her hand on the downstroke, and his knees threatened to give way.

“Alright, alright—” With more reluctance than he thought possible, he pulled her hand away.

“Wha—”

He cut her off with a quick kiss. “About to fall over, darling.”

“Graceful.”

He nipped playfully at her pleased smirk before carefully urging her to the blankets below, then stumbling after her.

Propped on one elbow above her, he chased away the nervous set of her mouth with his own.

“Bella,” he whispered against her lips. His throat bobbed with a swallow, and she pressed up on her elbows to lick at the knot there. Her name fell from him again on a groan. “Show me what to do,” he asked, craving the same guidance she had requested—needed it to ensure this moment was as wonderful for her as it was for him.

She pulled away, eyes wide. “What?”

“Show me how to touch you.” West tucked a loose strand behind her ear.

“But you’re not— You’ve done this before.”

“Not with you.” He dipped his nose to brush hers before trailing it along her throat, inhaling her essence. “Never with you.”