Page 167 of The Widow and the Wanted

Slow down. Draw back. Linger.

Okee knows where I’m weakest. Knows what makes my breath hitch, what makes my hands curl useless in the settee cushion, what makes my bones feel like they’ve gone soft under my skin.

He strokes me in time with each pull, looking at me like every part of me belongs in his hands.

That near finishes me all by itself.

“Christ… Okee,” I breathe.

“That’s an hour.”

I let my head fall back against the settee and stare at the ceiling, breathing hard through my nose. His other hand slides lower, confident as anything, cupping my balls with a care that makes my breath catch harder than if he’d been rough.

I try to scowl at him, but it’s a sorry attempt. Hard to look mean when a man’s got his hand around my cock and his fingers teasing my hole like he’s memorized the exact way to ruin me. My whole body jumps, hips lifting before his hand clamps firmer on my thigh.

I want to curse him. Praise him.

I can’t do either without adding time to my sentence, so I just sit there, shaking, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Then he yanks down my trousers, and I realize the difficulty of this little game is ramping up. His hands slide under my thighs and lift just enough to shift me deeper into the settee cushions. My breath catches, sharp and foolish.

He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. Then higher. The soft meat of my thigh. The crease of my hip. The place where my body goes most private and helpless.

Every inch slow. Every inch deliberate. Spreading me.

The first touch of his tongue near ends me.

Because it’s Okee, proud and solemn, on his knees between mine, licking me open with the same care he’d give stitching a wound.

A sound tears up my throat. I bite it back too late.

His hands tighten on my thighs.

“Hour and a half,” he murmurs against me, punctuating the sentence with a long, cruel lick. “Did you think I stopped keeping an account?”

I ought to remind him this whole exercise in silence has gone well past unreasonable, but he sucks one of my balls into his mouth and any bit of reason flees clean through clenched teeth. He takes hold of my hips and turns me like he’s got every right in the world, guiding me forward until my hands brace against the settee arm. My pulse races, every little hair on my arms perking up at the heat of Okee behind me, big and warm and steady. His fly rustles open quick while Lula hums in the other room, oblivious, as he spreads me apart and buries his face like a wolf gone nose deep in a fresh kill.

“Christ almighty,” I groan, backing deeper onto his tongue. I swear I can feel him smile against me a moment before he pulls away and slides his hand up my back. The blunt head of his cock nudges my hole.

Then his hand leaves my hip.

I hear the little tin open before I feel his fingers.

Lula’s salve. Course.

Only in this house could a man get bent over the sitting-room settee with supper on the stove and an apothecary preparation involved.

She made it months ago with the same stern care she gives fever drafts and burn poultices, sliding the little blue tin across the table like contraband.

“For comfort,” she’d said, chin lifted.

Okee warms it between his fingers first, thoughtful even when he is fixing to ruin me. Then he touches me there, slick and careful, circling slow until my arms weaken against the settee. From the kitchen, Lula hums to herself, entirely unaware or pretending hard at it.

Okee’s mouth brushes the back of my neck. “Easy,” he says.

His fingers press and my body remembers exactly why that little blue tin lives in the drawer beside the lamp.

“Oh my God, yes—” I moan and the words escape before I even know my lips are moving.