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His lips drew a side-smile. “Are you sure your eyesight is good?” he jested. “Want to borrow my spectacles?”
Speaking of which, she pulled them from his face and placed them on the chest of drawers. He wore them mostly for reading and long-distance, but he had this urgency to see her, all of her.
“You have no idea, do you?” she replied. Their gazes meshed for long seconds until he seemed to understand she spoke truly. It fuelled him to undress her with more eagerness.
Finally, they stood as they came into this world, his gaze absorbing her in the firelight, her alabaster skin, the high, plump breasts, the narrow waist, and shapely legs entranced him.
“You are the one who has no idea of what you do to me,” he drawled, straining not to shame himself.
He made her lie down on the fresh sheets and lay upon her, entangling their arms and legs. He kissed her, then again. Once more in long, long moments, skin to skin, holding her to him, gluing her to him, never intending to let go.
But it would not be enough. So he dragged his mouth down her throat, her collarbone, to worship her goddess’s breasts, one and its twin, thoroughly. All the time she held him, moaned her pleasure, stayed with him every step of the way.
And then he continued down her body in complete awe at her perfection, at how well they fit together, at how right this felt.
His lips reached the triangle of light hair where he nuzzled, inhaled, explored. Next, he made her bend her knees to kiss her inner thighs and revel in so much smoothness and warmth. He craved more though. Red-head neared her core, thumbs leafed through her flower. And gave an experimental lick.
With a moan, she lifted her head to him. “Where did you learn this?” it seemed a new move for her.
He tilted his head enigmatically. “I have my sources,” clearly, he would not disclose what Trent and his crowd scornfully commented with such lack of regard for the women who pleasured them, serviced them.
But he did not endeavour to think about that now. He dived back to her to tongue her tart sweetness from the wet ‘fit’ spot to hard nub and back. Her head fell on the pillow with an audible sigh. The sounds she uttered made him more and more aroused, to bursting point. His tongue savoured her as if she were ambrosia, teased her bud, played with it, tested what made it tick. And when she cried her completion, he almost mimed her.
His lifted his eyes to her. “Harriet, I need to ‘fit’ in your flower,” he said and she widened her legs as answer.
Over her, he braced himself on one arm and wrapped his erection with the other hand to guide it inside her hot, wet channel. And pushed deep. Only for dissolution to threaten him. She moaned. The moist heat of her gripped him, the sensation so earth-shattering he might perish from it. He moaned in between serrated breaths as though he had reached death’s door. Or eternity’s. Perhaps hell’s. Because the pleasure was so unbearably acute, its pungency robbed him of words. The torture robbed him of sanity.
“Harriet.” He grunted. “This is…this is so…” He panted uncontrollably. “So terribly delicious.”
Inside her, every possible and extreme delight befell him. His glans felt like it would melt like seal wax on a candle. And his stem went into explosion point as the ring of her entrance tied the base as though it wrung a silken thread tight around it. The purest, most undiluted agony took him by storm. Her sheath was so tight, so hot, so wet it was impossible not to fall apart.
“Move, Samuel.” She guided.
He imagined he would pass out if he did. But he tried, he swore he did. He thrust once and every fibre in him multiplied the delight by a million. A trillion. When she moaned again, he nearly went out of his mind. He halted, bent his head in search of a lint of control. Found none. But he must keep going. One more push, and quick as lightning, his seed shot with such force he screamed, grunted and cursed on the verge of disintegration.
He uttered every blasphemy that came to his deranged head in English, in Gaelic, even in Latin. “I’m sorry, Harriet,” he made to go from her, only she held him.
“Don’t be,” her fingers whispered down his spine. “First-times are bound to be a tad clumsy.”
“I wish it had lasted for hours, you’re so delectable!”
“So are you,” she said.
Abruptly he raised his head. “I am?”
She nodded, her hair all over the place, her cheeks reddened, eyes luminous, pure beauty. “Come here,” and cradled him in her soft warmth, covering them with the coverlet.
Wrapped in her, he felt desired, nurtured, accepted. She represented everything he had not imagined he would find in a woman. It was as if her presence created a dome where only the two of them existed in a space palpitating with sensation, emotion and that endless need that seeped between them.
With their bodies still joined, Harriet’s universe crumbled around her. Even sated, she still registered her insides clamouring for more, her flesh continued shivering with the aftermath. She forced herself to lie motionless for fear that her desire grew. Had she had the faintest idea it could be this good, she would have given in to her yearnings earlier. Given in to Samuel, that is. He had pleasured her, then filled her every hidden inch, simply to present her with that stormy expression on his fine-boned face. It had taken her breath away.
What if she needed him again? She would not confess it, for sure, but neither would she feel guilty. All of him had proved to so…desirable, irresistible. Even his lack of experience was an aphrodisiac. Her hands roamed his spine covered in a sheen of sweat, a witness of his extreme repletion.
“Am I hurting you?” He mumbled, jaw resting on her neck, one of his hands also wandering under the sheets.
“No, it’s good,” she replied as he cuddled further in her softness.
His palm covered one breast, his lips drew back and forth on that sensitive skin. “Not so much as you are,” he rasped.
