He spread her knees wider and leaned in, finding the rhythm of her body. The catch of her breath; the rise of her chest. The pulse of her clitoris against his lips, the taste of her desire. It matched the flow of blood to his own body, the want that was swelling his cock. She was utterly bare to him, every impulse, every desire impossible for her to hide. Her hips flexed up to meet him; her hands tangled in the length of his hair, urging him on. He could feel the flush of her pleasure as it rose on her skin, that delicious warmth spreading throughout her. He could taste the slickness of her sex, growing wetter with every stroke of his tongue. He could sense her orgasm, coming swiftly upon her, flowing over her until her hands clenched and she cried aloud. Her thighs pressed hard against him. He growled and took it all, every last bit.
And then—when her breath died down, when the last of her cries faded from the air—he took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He undid his shirt, the buttons of his trousers. He felt impossibly eager. And yet he seemed to be moving slowly through treacle, as if there was a solemn deliberation to his actions. Her eyes opened and she watched him stepping out of his trousers, sliding down his smallclothes. He folded these, setting them atop everything else.
He was hard, so hard. He knelt on the ground before her, set his hands on her knees.
“Is this…” she said. “Is this how we’re going to do this?”
“Like this,” he told her, and fitted his c**k against her sex. “Exactly like this. Slowly. Tell me if it hurts, and we’ll give it time.”
She nodded. “I had thought it would be different.”
“This way, I can watch you,” he said. “And if I’m on top of you, I can’t use my hands.”
“Oh.”
“I very much want to use my hands.”
“Oh.” That was said in the back of her throat, at almost a purr. He felt it in the base of his cock.
So he used his hands, sliding his fingers between her legs, testing the slickness of her. She was ready and aroused; he rubbed the head of his c**k in her juices, luxuriating in the feel of her. When she moaned and lifted her hips to him, he slid an inch into her. God, she was so tight around him. The feel of her body, warm and wet around his, pressing all around him, was the second sweetest thing he’d ever experienced. The look in her eyes—that starry, trusting look—was the sweetest.
“All right?” he asked.
“Better than all right.” She smiled at him.
He slid in another inch. She felt good, so good. “Lovely weather we had today.”
She laughed. “The weather? Are we really talking about the weather? Now?”
“I told you. I want to be in complete control. We can talk about the weather, or I could think about how amazing it feels to sink my c**k into you.” God, she felt so good. Better than anything he had imagined. “And then it will all be over too fast.”
“So it would ruin everything if I talked about how this felt?” she asked. “About how delicious it is to run my hands along your shoulders. How much I want your thighs against mine. I could tell you that I’m still sensitive everywhere from what you did before, and that you’re driving me mad, going as slowly as you are.”
“Free.” His c**k pulsed in protest.
“You keep acting as if I will break.” She smiled up at him. “Here’s a secret.”
He dropped his head to hers.
“I plan to do just that,” she whispered. “To break in pieces, and I insist on having your help in getting there.”
It was too much for him. He took hold of her hips and slid all the way in, seating himself deep inside her. She made a noise deep in her throat, and he was lost. Lost in the feel of her, lost in the certainty of her. He slid out and then in. He’d thought of claiming her, but it didn’t feel that way at all. He was the one driving into her, but it was her touch on his face that undid him. He set the pace, but her muscles tightened around him, squeezing him, and he lost any control he’d had. He took her hard and unrelenting, no sweet words, no pauses to make certain that she was well.
But he didn’t need her to tell him in words. He could hear it in her breath, feel it as he brought his hand between them, found that sensitive nub he’d worried earlier. She was gasping now. He brought up his right hand—still gloved—and found her breast. Her nipple was hard against his touch; she threw her head back.
More. More. She needed more, and he gave her all of him, every thrust, every breath, every last caress, until she convulsed around him again. And then he gave her everything in return, spilling into her, his mind turning to nothing but light, nothing but her.
Breath returned first as his body calmed. Then, slowly, his thoughts returned, one by one, like reluctant fowl returning to the hen house. He needed her. He adored her. And when she found out who he was, she was going to hate him.
He pulled away from her heavily. She swung her legs onto the bed, reached out, caught his hand. And before he knew it, she’d pulled her back to him. Her lips brushed his collarbone, his neck. His mouth. He had no choice in the matter. He had to kiss her.
The sun had set by now, and early moonlight spilled across her face, across that lovely, delicious smile that he’d won from her. She reached out and tangled the fingers of her right hand with his left.
“Edward.”
He savored the caress in her voice, that lilting lovely tone of satisfaction. Maybe he’d have a chance after all—maybe, if he could make her smile like that again…
“Darling Free.”
“I have a question.”