“Shh, lassie, I don’t mind.”
The look of fear subsided from her face and he pulled her back against his chest again. Now it was his turn to moan, rocking his hips against her crack as they spooned. He kneaded her breast in his palm and felt her nipple harden inside his hand. She reached back and found his cock, making him hiss.
When she moved her hips so as to take him inside her, Colin panicked.
“Fuck,” he groaned. He let her keep stroking him, but he pulled her arse against his balls and reached around, finding her soaking wet center. “Fuuuck,” he moaned again. She moved against his hand and he knew she needed him. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Not under these circumstances. Not unless there was no other way.
He pushed two fingers inside her and felt her whole body constrict around him at the contact. She let out a guttural cry of ecstasy and he adjusted his body to have better access. Pushing his fingers even deeper, he curled them against her tight walls, stroking in and out, rubbing her pulsing button with his thumb. Her hand tightened over his cock, squeezing him to the point of fucking pain. He growled, loving it, and Angela gave a shout that morphed into a long moan. Her body bucked and shook with the waves of her orgasm.
Bloody fucking gorgeous.
But she wasn’t about to leave him unsatisfied. As soon as he released her she rolled and straddled him. Her drooping silk dress and the sheets tangled around them hid their actions from view. Angela made a reach for his dick and he grabbed her wrists, locking them at her sides. He shifted himself so she was comfortably seated atop the length of his erection. A split second of something like hurt or confusion passed across the girl’s face before Colin growled, “Ride me.”
They moved together, her arms still not allowed to participate. She looked so beautiful, her hair disheveled from sleep. Wild. Lines from the sheets still creased her chest. Colin pulled both her wrists into one of his hands so he could reach up and cup her exposed breast. He tweaked her nipple, adoring how she reacted positively and erotically to every action.
Because she has to, ya fuckwad, his conscience corrected him.
Could she really be faking it? Was she trained that well? Or did she truly take her pleasure every time she was with a man? The thought made him squeeze her breast harder than he meant and she cried out in pain, the sound whimpering into a moan.
How similar the sounds of pain and pleasure, Colin thought.
She began to move like crazy on top of him, sliding up and down the length of him, squeezing with her thighs.
Ah, fuck me, Colin thought. She looked like she was going to come again. So beautiful, the way her eyebrows came together and her lips parted with the effort of breathing. And sure enough, her panting turned to gasps and she pressed harder against his shaft, vocalizing every sensation as it rocked through her small body. Colin wished like fuck he was deep inside her to feel those throbs surrounding his cock.
He’d never come close to wanting to fuck anyone as badly as he wanted Angela at that moment.
The second she was done he bucked his hips, lifting her, and giving her body a gentle shove downward. She took his cue like a pro and went down, engulfing his thick head in her mouth and swallowing every drop.
When she was done she slid off the bed and went into that fucking kneeling position. But then her eyes caught sight of the canvas and she did a double take, staring at it. Colin watched as her eyes widened, sliding over the image, her mouth slightly agape. He held his breath, wondering what she thought of the way he’d depicted her.
He was nervous all of a sudden. Colin Douglas, who never gave a flying shite what anyone thought, was practically breaking a sweat. Her eyes seemed to drink it in, and he envisioned the scene of the portrait as she gazed.
He’d painted her skin a creamy richness with golden hues. Her face had been at an angle which thwarted any facial features that would have made her recognizable in the picture. Everything about her in the painting was supple. Glowing. Sensual. And then there were her surroundings. The dark bedding was painted in slashes of grays and black. Dangerous. The headboard was a dark, ominous thing looming over her. The bedposts were like sharp daggers. Every rough thing surrounding her glorious image was at odds with her softness. Like an angel caught in hell.
As he stared at her, staring at the painting, a crimson blush rose up her chest and throat, coloring her cheeks. Her eyes moved to his with something akin to shock, and she dropped her head when she caught him looking.
“Puedo ser excusada para ir a limpiarme, Se?or?” she asked in a small voice.
“Um…” Damn it. He wished she’d speak English because his Spanish wasn’t the best. He thought she was asking to be excused. So she could wash up? “Yes.”