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“Oh, no you don’t.” Murray catches my wrists, easy as that, and holds them pinned together in one hand. With the other, he strokes slowly up and down my bare arms, watching the tiny hairs stand up in his wake. Then he traces along my collarbone, flattens his palm over my chest, and drags it down between my breasts.
Shit. I don’t recognize myself, the way I’m gasping and arching into his touch. Practically thrusting my nipples right at him.
“You’re perfect.” His praise washes over me, warm and golden, and it keeps coming. “So sweet and clever and funny. And so beautiful, Jessica. The most beautiful woman in the world.”
I cough out a laugh, and I don’t know what makes me say it. Twenty years of being less-than, I guess. “Well, hey. You should meet my sisters.”
Murray huffs, and he looks so offended my heart sings. “I won’t notice them. You’ll have to keep pointing them out to me, and it’ll be so fucking rude, but it’s because I’m blind to every woman but you.”
He’s right, that would be rude.
I love it, though.
“We’ll blame it on my bad eye,” Murray adds. “About time it was useful for something.”
I pluck my wrists free, wrap my arms around his neck, and then I’m peppering the scarred side of his face with kisses. Showing how much I love him—allof him.
Murray lets me do that for a minute at least, but then he’s kneading my breasts again. Tweaking and pinching my nipples. And I’m rocking over his thighs, so hot and slippery inside my pajama pants as his cock prods at me through the bed clothes.
“I can’t wait much longer.”
Murray wheezes out a laugh. “Good. We won’t be setting any time records here, angel.”
“Ha! Help me up.”
I grip his hand for balance, pushing to my feet and shoving my pants down my hips. Wobbling, I step out of the fabric, and Murray shoves the blankets down his thighs and kicks off his boxers before I kneel back down.
His cock juts up between us, thick and hard and ruddy. A dark thatch of hair surrounds the base, and a bead of moisture clings to the tip.
I poke the shaft with a fingertip. It jolts toward Murray’s belly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
“Can I lick it?”
Murray tilts his head back and mutters a dark prayer at the ceiling.
With his blessing, I shuffle down the bed on my knees, getting on eye level with my soon-to-be-husband’s cock. It’s not like I’ve never seen one before—I’m a woman on the internet in the twenty-first century. Come on. But I’ve never seen one up close, in the flesh. At my mercy.
My fingers wrap around the base. It’s warm, and the skin is soft, but the shaft beneath is hard as rock.
“You can grip me tighter.”
Good to know. I adjust my hold, and now I can feel Murray’s pulse tapping against my fingertip. “Like this?”
A shaky breath. “Yeah.”
Up and down. Slow movements, up and down. I steal glances between the cock in my hand and the lighthouse keeper’s expression. His cheeks are flushed again, his eyes bright and glittering as they watch me. As my thumb swipes over the slit, his hips jerk up.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
I do it again.
When I move my face closer, I notice his scent. He’s earthy and clean and masculine down here, and I suck in greedy lungfuls, my hand moving faster.
“You don’t have to—”
I start with a tester lick. A quick dart of my tongue over the tip.
Murray groans, the sound broken, and I taste salt.
