Page 56 of Go, Rogue

“Like Christmas morning,” he murmurs, catching sight of her bound breasts. He moves slowly, unwrapping her, caressing her as he goes. His fingers gently brushing against her nipples and then trailing down the divot of skin between her breasts.

“Show me,” he says, “how you touch yourself.”

She puts her hands to her own breasts, caressing them as he’s done. Her fingers find her nipple and she gives it a tweak. She makes a little sound as she does that causes him to shudder beneath her. He presses his hips and hardness into her once again and she grinds herself against it.

“Like this,” she says and takes his hand and places it on her breast. He squeezes the nipple like she’s done, and she throws her head back, her eyes closing.

“Again,” she says. “Do it again, please.”

He obliges until she’s trembling and aching. Her hips moving against him, too fast.

“Slow down,” he whispers and brings his large hands to her sides, holding her still. “We’re not in a hurry.” He kisses her again and then asks, “Where else do you like to touch yourself?”

“I’ll show you,” she says, feeling the flame of embarrassment tinge her cheeks again. “If you’ll show me too. A touch for a touch.”

“Aye, lass. A touch for a touch.”

He regrets it the moment he says it. Because there’s no going back from this kind of intimacy once they share it. He stares at her for a moment, cheeks flushed and pink in a way he rarely gets to see.

A little droplet of sweat has appeared at her hairline and is purling down the side of her temple. Her heart beats so fast that the rapid up and down of her chest reminds him of a hummingbird’s wings.

He knows there’s no going back, and he also knows he doesn’t want to go back. He wants this. He wants her. And for the first time, there’s no reason he can think of that he can’t have her. She’s no longer engaged. She’s as far away from the blasted English aristocracy as she can get. And she’s here, in front of him, all bright eyes and mischievous smile and want.

And she’s waiting for him. For him.

He lifts himself off her so they’re facing each other on the small bed, and then reaches out to gently cup her cheek with his hand.

“Are ye sure?” he asks.

“Aye,” she says, her eyes never leaving his, and her face breaking into the grin he loves.

“Aye, indeed, ye wee Menace.”

He moves his hand slowly, so slowly, to his trousers. He undoes the first button and glances up at her. She’s staring, transfixed. So he undoes the second and the third. When he reaches the last and his cock springs free, he hears her make a little gasp.

He can’t help but grip himself and give his hard length a slow, lazy tug. He feels full and hot and desperate for friction. But not yet. He makes some kind of gurgling, frustrated noise but removes his hand.

“When I say touch yourself,” he says, “I mean do you know how to bring yourself pleasure?”

He looks at her, eyes wide and blue.

“Yes,” she says, but her voice is unsteady now.

“Catherine, would you like to stop?” He will, of course, the moment she says so. He’ll shove his hard cock back into his trousers no matter how much that might hurt.

“No,” she says.

“Then what is it, lass? It’s okay to be nervous.”

“It’s only… I had no idea what it would look like. What you would look like. I mean, I’ve seen the marbles, of course, but they look nothing like you.”

He glances down at his own hard member. He’s never given it much thought before, that he knows the exact contours of a woman’s body and has done for half his life. But women are not afforded such opportunities to know men.

“And?” he asks, “do you like what you see, lass?”

“Are you shamelessly begging for compliments, Captain?”

He grips his cock again and slides his hand up and down it, the tip already leaking. He grunts and grins at her. “Aye. I believe I’m doing exactly that.”