“You’re really bloody gorgeous, Rachel,” he said, his gaze freely roaming her nude body. “Very sexy what with the curves and delightful tastes.”
She smiled as she straddled him, slid up his shaft. She put her hands on his shoulders, began to knead his flesh lightly. He settled back, smiling as he watched her, moving lightly beneath her as she traced soft lines down his chest with her fingertips, swirling around his nipples, then leaning forward in a curtain of curly hair to nibble them. She continued down his body, her tongue flicking into the crevice of his navel, her hands on his hips.
When her lips touched the velvet head of his penis, Flynn released his breath and shifted beneath her. His response prompted her to trace the length of him with her tongue.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned above her; his hands clasped the edge of the bed as he tried to restrain himself from writhing against her mouth as she tasted him as thoroughly as he had tasted her. But it was pointless to hold back, for Rachel had lost all self-control, and was gleefully pushing him to the brink of orgasm.
But Flynn wouldn’t have it so easily, and suddenly sat up, grabbed her beneath her shoulders, and pulled her up like she was nothing more than a doll. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, guided Rachel to his lap, and then his cock to her wet folds, teasing her.
“Don’t make me beg,” she said above him.
Flynn grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrapped it around his hand, pulled her face to his. “Tell me what you want, Rachel,” he muttered.
“I want you,” she said hoarsely. “I want you inside me.” Flynn thrust his tongue wildly into her mouth at the same moment he slid deep inside her, and began to move.
It was sensual overload; Rachel was wet and throbbing, aroused like a long-buried dinosaur, ravenous for physical pleasure.
When Flynn slipped his hand between her legs, Rachel’s head fell back; she was precariously close to ecstasy. But Flynn taunted her with his fingers, stroking her mindlessly, bringing her to the point of desperation, then easing off again, until Rachel could stand it no more and cried out for him to fuck her.
He made a guttural sound and thrust hard inside her, again and again, taking her breasts into his mouth, nibbling the hard peaks of them as her body took him in. Over and over again he thrust into her, and she rode each wave with great anticipation, harder and faster than the one before, her fingers digging into his shoulders, reaching for the earth-shattering climax she could feel pressing down on her until it rained in around her, pushing her off the precipice into that warm pool again.
Her body went limp; she fell onto his shoulder. With one last powerful thrust, Flynn gave a strangled sob of release as he pulled out of her, spilling hot on her belly.
They sat that way for a moment, Rachel hanging limply over his shoulder, until Flynn somberly put his arms around her, slowly leaned back until she could stretch out her legs and lay beside him.
The heat at last ebbed from their bodies, and he reached over the bed, pulled a blanket of some sort over them. “I think I should tell you before I announce it to my mum, but I’ve converted, here and now, to Tantra,” he said, and kissed the crown of her hair. “Just tell me where to enlist.”
Rachel laughed into his chest and shifted, propping herself up on her elbows so she could look at him. “I have some bad news,” she said with a smile. “I’m not sure if we did it right. We might need to do further study.”
Flynn laughed low, tapped her nose with his finger. “You’ll never meet a more willing study partner,” he said. “That was brilliant.”
Brilliant. He had no idea how brilliant. And as Rachel was mulling over in her mind how she’d break the news to Dagne that at least one British guy knew what he was doing in the boudoir, Flynn said, “How odd . . . I have the strongest hankering for my mother’s rum cake. Do you smell something like cake?”
Rachel buried her face in his chest, laughing uncontrollably.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They lay in bed laughing at inconsequential things, playing a little game of naming their favorite things and marveling at how much they had in common.
“Favorite city,” Rachel said.
“New York,” Flynn answered instantly.
“Me, too!” she cried.
The favorite country was France. They both preferred alternative rock to rock and roll, and they both loved the circus.