“I do,” he agreed, pausing just above the spot that throbbed. “But I would very much like to hear you say it.”
She met his eyes, and her pride warred with pleasure for half a second, and lost. “Touch me there,” she whispered. “Where it’s… worst.”
He smiled, and finally, finally, his thumb pressed directly over the pulsing bundle of nerves. Her whole body arched.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Yes… God—there.”
He rewarded her with another slow stroke right over that aching peak, making her hips jerk in response. She could not help it and could not stop it; her whole body wanted him.
He paused. “More?”
“Yes,” she said, panting. “More.”
He circled it again, drawing her wetness and spreading it. His other hand held her steady by the hip. She could hardly bear it.
“More,” she moaned.
He only stroked slower, teasing her now, the cruel man.
“More what?”
She whimpered.
“Say it.”
“You’re vile,” she choked.
“Oh, I know. But this is led entirely by you, Miss Tolliver. If you want something, you must name it.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Damn it. She might have won the forfeit, but she had lost entirely. “I want your fingers inside me.”
He rewarded her instantly. He slid one finger inside her, long and warm and exquisitely slow. She gasped aloud and her whole body clenched.
He groaned. “Christ, you’re tight.”
He stayed still for a moment, but his other hand never left its post, still rubbing in soft circles that made her head fall back.
“You are soaked.”
She laughed breathlessly, feeling wanton and not caring a stitch.“I have been soaked since you kissed me at the races.”
His chuckle was low and wicked, and her hips began to move against him as he found a rhythm, each slow thrust making her gasp and moan at the friction and the impossibly filthy sound of it.
“I could keep you like this for hours, you know,” he said, his voice ragged. Though her eyes were closed, she could feel his lips against her knee.
She let out a broken sound, hips chasing his hand. “You should not say such things.”
He hummed low in his chest, and it vibrated through her. “You should notwantsuch things.”
And then—oh God—he added a second finger. She cried out, spreading her legs wider to accommodate the stretch. His fingers filled her, scissored gently, then pressed deeper still. He curled them inside her, finding the spot that made her cry out, and stroked.
“Oh God,” she breathed. “Oh…there.”
“Yes,” he said, circling her aching peak again with his thumb, his fingers still curling. “I know precisely where.”
She could not hold on. Her head dropped forwards, hands fisting in his hair now, dragging him closer—not for a kiss, nor for anything romantic, but because she was coming apart and needed something to hold on to. “Oh. Do not stop. Do not stop, for I am—”
“Yes,” he growled. “I know.”
