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It was a lot to ask. Hesitantly, I cupped my own full curves. His gaze was heavy-lidded as he watched. Gradually, I climbed a new level of arousal. Somehow, him watching me touch myself was more intimate than the fact he was lodged deep inside me.
His entire body tensed. This delay in our frantic rush to the end was costing him. Yet still, he didn’t move.
I closed my eyes and lightly caressed my nipples. His fingers dug into my hips with bruising force. Encouraged by his reaction, I pressed my breasts together, plumping and squeezing them.
Finley cursed. “Jesus, Duchess. I can’t wait.”
He rolled me onto my side, lifted my leg over his hip, and pounded into me from behind, shaking the bed and drawing a cry from my parched throat as we strained against each other trying to occupy the same physical space. It was madness and frenzy and deep, unadulterated need.
I wanted it to go on forever. I wanted us to go on forever.
When he exploded at the end, hammering into me and groaning as if he were dying, I let go.
With no more inhibitions to stop me, I felt myself fly. My orgasm was intense, draining, and spectacular.
We tumbled together like tired children and slept.
