Chapter 23
Molly
Idon’t know who makes the move first, but suddenly his mouth is on mine, and this time it stays right where I need it.
His lips are warm and plush, pressing against me like they mean business, and I luxuriate in the sheer indulgence of their pillowy softness for a moment before I open my mouth the tiniest bit to see if he’s as desperate as I am to take our kiss further.
He is.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, hot and hard and demanding, filling me up and moving in exactly the familiar, entitled way I need it to, as if it’s been hours, not years, since he last kissed me.
Last memorised me.
I allow my tongue to seek his out, to entangle itself in the most decadent, delicious way before I abandon myself to the power of his strokes.
The sheer hunger. The hand on my hip is now clamped to the small of my back as his other hand splays over my jaw, my neck, in a grip so tight it’s like he’s trying to climb inside my mouth.
I need this so badly. Need him so badly—need his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my body, the heavenly grind of his pecs against my breasts as he holds our bodies flush together.
Need as much of him as I can get. My nails claw through his hair as my other hand wraps around his blessed shoulders to grope shamelessly at the muscles of his back.
My senses are reeling. My head is spinning like I’ve done a line of shots. Our kisses grow more frenzied. Famished. All this intimacy, and memory-dredging, and innocent yet charged bed-warming has built to this.
And I can already tell it’s going to be explosive. His feverish kisses and ragged breaths tell me he needs this as much as I do. Max Rutherford is wound to the point of no return.
Thank God.
Because previous experience tells me exactly what this man is capable of when he’s wound that far.
I slide my hand frantically up and down his back before managing to grab the hem of his t-shirt and clumsily tug it higher. He breaks our kiss for a second to reach behind him and tug it over his head.
Why is that so sexy?
Why?
I sigh-groan my appreciation as I pull him back towards me, the blessed warmth of his naked skin utter heaven. My palms skate over him, re-learning him after a period of abstinence so long that it’s utter sacrilege, if you ask me.
He’s so hot. In every way. His skin is radiating heat, the muscles it dresses flexing, rippling, under my touch, like having my hands on him brings him to life.
‘Top off,’ he gasps and tugs my sweater up.
It goes flying off onto some far surface, knocking out some hair pins so my plaited chignon hangs heavily.
Awkwardly. I couldn’t care less because Max is scrabbling at the hook of my bra.
He undoes it with a triumphant hiss and slides the straps down my shoulders, his eyes fixed firmly on my breasts.
He flashes me a look that’s pure need before returning to what used to be his favourite sight. Before I know it, his hands are on my bum, and I’m being lifted up and positioned on the island. I laugh and put my hands on the gorgeous, sculpted domes of his shoulders to steady myself.
Max steps right in between my legs. His fingertips brush reverently up my sides before he cups my breasts, his thumbs strumming over my nipples. The kitchen is warm, but they harden greedily under his touch as I arch my back in pleasure, desperate for more friction.
‘Real enough for you?’ he asks against my mouth, his voice rough with need.
‘God, yes.’ My hands slide over his shoulders and down his biceps.
‘Good,’ he says brusquely, pulling back enough that we can get a good look at each other.
His eyes are dark and hungry as they rove over my face and breasts.
‘Still so fucking beautiful,’ he mutters before he dives in for a kiss, the strokes of his tongue hard.
Probing. His hands knead my breasts, their movements hurried and rough and exactly the way I want it from him.
He rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers before pinching hard, and I practically come on the spot.
‘Fuck me,’ he grits out. ‘I need your hair down, Mol.’
I raise my arms to unpin what’s left of my up-do before I unravel the long plait. Max steps back to devour my exposed breasts with his eyes, a filthy grin on his face.
‘What a sight for sore fucking eyes,’ he says.
While my hands are engaged in their task, he bends and takes one stiff nipple in his mouth, teasing the bud with his tongue before closing his mouth around it and giving it a hard suck that goes straight to my clit.
My moan must communicate as much, because he rewards me by sucking even harder, fondling my other nipple with his fingers.
When my arms go to his shoulders, he pulls away and looks up at my hair, now cascading loose around me.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, his expression rapt. He smooths a hand over it. ‘Hang on tight.’
I do as he says, looping my arms around his neck as he picks me up again, my hair spilling over both of us.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Is the fire lit in the living room?
‘Yeah.’ I snuggle more closely against him, loving how the soft hair of his chest feels against my sensitised nipples, and loving even more the unmissable jut of his erection against me.
‘Good. I want to fuck you in front of the fire. Let’s see what The Lady of Shalotts has to say about that.’
I gasp. He wants to fuck me in front of the painting my ex-husband painted of me. Sneaky bastard.
‘Problem?’
‘I’m not the one with the problem,’ I say as airily as I can manage as I wriggle downwards against the excellent combination of hard erection and rough denim against my legging-clad core.
He kisses me as he walks me out of the kitchen. ‘You’ll be so full of my problem in about five minutes, you won’t know your own name. Got it?’
I giggle. I’m not sure where the poor woman Cassandra tried to belittle has gone, but she’s nowhere to be seen. In her place is a wanton goddess, and she’s about to get exactly what she needs.
‘Five minutes?’ I ask. ‘Why so long?’
‘You think I’m not going to taste you as soon as I get you on that rug? But whether you can hang on for five minutes once my tongue’s on you is anyone’s guess.’
Definitely not, I think, inwardly hugging myself with delight. I give myself a minute, tops.
‘Show me what you’ve got these days, Rutherford,’ I say instead. I’m baiting the bull—a dangerous game that I’m sure will prove worth the risk.
Max gets us into the living room, kicking the door shut with a slam that makes me flinch, because if a child wakes up now I will die.
I will literally die from unmet sexual needs and the sheer unfairness of it all.
He seems to belatedly realise his mistake, because he freezes too, but after a long moment with no audible pitter-patter or crying, he puts me down.
‘Get on the rug,’ he says, patting the huge bulge in the front of his jeans, ‘and I’ll show you what I’ve got, baby.’
I giggle again. ‘Can’t wait.’ God, I feel positively skittish at the prospect of seeing Max’s cock again after so long. I hope the feeling’s mutual.
I get down on the rug, the fire casting its warmth over my bare skin, and lower myself back down onto my elbows, shaking my head to get my hair off my face. Max towers over me as he unbuttons his jeans before pulling down the zip.
Is there a hotter sound than the sound of a guy you’re head over heels in lust with unzipping his jeans? Than Max Rutherford unzipping his jeans?
I don’t think so.
I may well be smirking like the cat who’s about to get the cream.
(I really did not intend that pun.)
The smirk is wiped off my face pretty quickly when he shoves down his jeans and boxer briefs simultaneously with a pained intake of air, because Max in all his glory is no laughing matter. No, sir. That is a serious erection he has there. Almost angry-looking.
I let my gaze rake over the spectacular sight in front of me.
His gorgeous, sculpted, golden body. The hard jut of his cock.
Balls heavy, full. I follow his happy trail up with my eyes, over the six-pack I was drooling over earlier and can now get up close and personal with, over the defined pecs with their dusting of hair.
And best of all, over his face, his jaw clenched with need.
‘Come here,’ I whisper.
He drops to his knees with a grace that belies his size and reaches out, raking my hair through his fingers so it falls loosely over my shoulder.
My breast. I glance down. It’s glowing golden in the firelight, and I’m instantly transported back to Max doing this very thing infinite times when we were together.
The guy could have written a doctorate paper on the effects of varied light sources on my hair.
‘You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,’ he says as if in a daze. His hand brushes down between my breasts and over my stomach before latching onto the waistband of my leggings. ‘Even more beautiful, in fact.’
I brace myself on my elbows and raise my bum so he can drag my leggings and pants down.
And then we’re both naked.
Twelve years. One marriage. Two children.
And I find myself in the midst of a full-circle moment that takes my breath away as Max lowers himself between my raised knees, his eyes shining in the firelight with all the emotion I’m feeling, and covers my mouth with his.
I lift a hand to scratch at that stubble that’s been haunting me for days.
It’s more of a beard, now, and it’s as perfect a mix of soft and scratchy as I knew it would be.
His tongue finds mine as he lowers me down to a lying position, and I drink him in.
The weight of him on top of me. The teasing friction of the crown of his dick as it rubs against my core.
The sheer pleasure of being beneath him, surrounded by him.
I make a futile attempt to shift my hips under him.
Forget oral sex. I just want him inside me.
I want him to fill me up. I’m trying to tilt my hips up and wedge a hand between us, hoping that by some miracle I can sort of push him in, when he lifts away from my face.
‘Not on your life, sweetheart,’ he says in a tone that’s equal parts menacing and promising. He gets up on all fours, and I have the impression of being on the cusp of being ravaged by a predator, if the ravenous gleam in his eyes is anything to go by.
‘I like you on all fours like this,’ I tell him as I lie there, basking in this moment and in the sublime warmth of his attention. My body is braced for an orgasm it seriously needs, yet I’m languid. Molten.
‘Not as much as I like you on all fours,’ he says darkly, and I suck in a breath. His eyes don’t leave mine as he swipes a finger through my wet heat. Oh, Jesus. He hasn’t done anything to me yet, except suck on a nipple, and I’m so close already.
He bites down hard on his lower lip. The sight of teeth sinking into flesh has as visceral an effect on me as the feel of his finger dancing briefly over my swollen clit, my wet folds, my entrance, before withdrawing and leaving me bereft.
‘Max.’ I shudder out his name. ‘I need you.’
‘You need a few orgasms. That’s what you need. You’re going to be a wrung-out rag doll when I’ve finished with you, Mol.’
And with that deliciously ominous statement, he slides down my body.