Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

“Your hands feel good to me.”


Laying a hand over his, she dragged his touch from her hip to her breast. He cupped the small globe easily in his palm, kneading gently. Pleasure spread through her body as he chafed his thumb over her hardened nipple. A lusty sigh eased from her throat.

“You like that.” He thumbed her nipple again.

“Oh, yes.” She tightened her leg over his hips and flexed her thigh, drawing him deeper into her.

Relaxing her neck, she rested her head on her arm and simply stared into his beautiful eyes as together they worked their hips back and forth. In and out. “This is wonderful, Rhys. I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

“So am I. Believe me. Another week of holding back, and I think I would have imploded.” One eyebrow arched. “Is it strange that we’re talking so much?”

“Strange? Perhaps it’s not usual, but it doesn’t feel strange in the least, not to me. It feels …”

“Right.” His breath hitched as he rocked his hips and sank deeper than ever. “It just feels right.” Another thrust. “Doesn’t it?”

Oh, Lord. It did. Of course it did.

His eyes drilled into hers, demanding and intense. Even with his arousal wedged against her womb, she felt more deeply penetrated by his gaze. There was desire there, and need … and just the faintest glimmer of fear. He gave another powerful buck of his hips. “Admit it. This is right, you and me. Meant to be.”

A voice within her shouted for caution, urged her to put up a wall of defense. Don’t, the voice said. You’ll reveal too much, risk heartbreak and worse.

Go to the devil, she told it back.

Rhys was inside her, and next to her, and surrounding her with his embrace, and he needed so damn much. The man had suffered a lifetime deprived of affection, and he clung to all this destiny nonsense because—uncertain, wounded soul that he was—he couldn’t bring himself to ask for hers. This was why he’d never offered her a choice. He was too afraid she’d say no.

She would not force him to ask. Not when she longed to give him everything. Affection, pleasure, a gentle lover’s touch.

“Yes,” she breathed, curling her arm around his shoulders. Stretching her neck, she brushed a kiss against his lips. “Yes, Rhys. It feels right.” She kissed those strong, sensuous lips again, then again, running her fingers through his feathery hair as she did. “Utterly … perfectly … absolutely right. We belong like this.”

He kissed her thoroughly, taking her mouth with feverish, driven passion. With a low groan, he rolled her onto her back and sank in deep.

Very deep. So deep, she gripped his shoulders in shock. In their side-by-side position, he obviously hadn’t penetrated her fully. No, there was definitely more of Rhys to be had. And now he gave it all to her, thrusting hard, working deeper, until his hips met against hers and the breath left her lungs.

“Are you well?” he asked, bracing himself on his elbows.

She managed a nod.

“Good.” Thrust. “Because I can’t stop.” Thrust. “God help me, I can’t stop.”

He thrust again, and his pelvis ground against hers. And she came, just like that. The feel of his strong body, the ragged need in his voice, all the emotion in her heart—she was overwhelmed, in every sense. The pleasure swept her in a hot, unrelenting rush, and she clung to him, riding it for all it was worth.

“God.” The tight growl of his voice told her he was close, too. “God.” He fell on her, lowering his weight to hers. “Hold on,” he whispered in her ear. “Hold me tight.”

She did as he asked, as she wanted to do. Locked her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs over the tree trunks that were his thighs. She cinched her intimate muscles, holding him tight there, too.

And then, when she’d gripped him in every way imaginable—he let go. The force and tempo of his thrusts increased. His mouth fell on hers, and he probed wildly with his tongue as he took her faster, harder, deeper. As though there were something he desperately needed, something that resided at the very center of her being—and to get at it, he would break her apart.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he reared up a bit. Just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were unfocused, and his lips contorted with pleasure. And as the inevitable approached, an incoherent rush of words tore from his chest.

“That’s so … Damn, it’s … Merry … Christ.”

Joy swelled in her breast, and she nearly laughed with it. Because she knew the next thirty seconds were going to be the best of Rhys St. Maur’s decade, and she was just so happy to be there, along for the ride.