Chapter 13 #2
This was still somehow insufficient. She tore at his shirt, feeling the satisfying pop of buttons.
He shrugged out of his coat, and then his waistcoat was gone too as her hair fully unraveled down her back in heavy skeins.
He preoccupied himself with the line of fastenings on her bodice as she pulled at his shirt, until the twain ends hung apart, revealing the muscled expanse of his chest. Inhaling deeply of his scent, she kissed along his clavicle, kissed his flat nipple, flicked her tongue over it.
“Miranda,” he ground out, her name part warning, part plea.
She felt infinitely powerful and deliriously powerless all at once.
She had this beautiful rakehell at her mercy, and yet he also had her helplessly in his thrall, captive to her own desire.
Her bodice sagged. He rent the top of her chemise in two and gave her corset a swift, sudden tug that made her bare breasts spill over the top.
Cool, gilded air greeted her hot, aching skin.
And then his hands were on her. Big hands, knowing hands, cupping and stroking, his long fingers plucking at her nipples until she cried out against him and lifted her face to receive his kiss.
This time, it was a long and plundering meeting of mouths.
His thumbs rolled over the peaks of her breasts, and then he pinched, sending arcs of pure, wonderful sensation shooting through her.
She kissed him, giving him her tongue, suckling his.
He tasted like meringue and cerise pudding from their luncheon and sweet, heady desire.
Oh heavens, this was wondrous and foolish.
Her breasts were bared to the light of day, and they had pawed each other’s clothing apart.
They were feeding each other kisses so carnal she thought she might spend just from his hands on her breasts and his tongue in her mouth.
Anyone could come upon them. Someone could find them at any moment.
But somehow, wicked sinner that she was, the knowledge of this danger only served to heighten her own need.
Only made her want him more. As if sensing her eagerness, he squeezed her nipples harder.
“I need you inside me,” she murmured into his kiss.
Another low rumble emerged from him, and she felt the frantic fumbling of his hand on his trousers, releasing buttons and opening the fall. He caught her lip in his teeth and tugged.
“Ride me, kitten.”
She ought to have been irritated by his insistence upon calling her by the silly sobriquet.
And yet, it only made her want him more.
Still kissing him, she reached between them, wrapping her fingers around the rigid thickness of his erect cock.
With a moan, she stroked him up and down, loving the way he felt, so smooth and yet so firm, hot and insistent.
Slicking the pad of her thumb over the head, she found his mettle leaking and swirled it over him, making him groan.
He was as ready for her as she was for him.
But she had never made love out of doors. She didn’t begin to understand the mechanics of how she was meant to ride him, as he had urged.
“How?” she asked hesitantly, wanting to please him more than she wanted, even, to please herself.
What a strange, unfamiliar feeling this was. Not just to revel in her own desire. But to revel in another’s too. To experience such carnal yearning, the likes of which she hadn’t imagined were even possible.
“I’ll show you.”
Gently, he disengaged himself from her, sliding his cock free of her grip.
Then he shifted his positioning, moving away from her and seating himself on the blanket, his long legs stretched before him.
For a moment, she was transfixed by the sight of him, his golden hair in disarray, his shirt hanging apart to display a delicious wedge of chest, his trousers undone to reveal his cock, stiff and ruddy, a pearlescent bead on the tip.
His gaze hot on her, he grasped himself at the base, stroking.
An answering ache throbbed deep. She wanted him to slide inside her.
To fill her. How sinful it was, the sight of him basking in the afternoon’s glow, surrounded by green grass and blue sky, so thoroughly male and beautiful, half dressed and watching her with a heavy-lidded stare as he fondled his cock.
It was too much. She thought she might explode from the pent-up yearning.
Rhys held out his other hand to her. “Hold up your skirts and come here.”
Following his instructions, she grasped handfuls of her gown, grateful that it was not nearly as voluminous and cumbersome as fashion would decree, but instead made for ease of movement.
“On your knees,” he added.
She did as he bade, moving to him across the blanket. He guided her so that each knee was on either side of his hips, and she was poised over him.
“Perfection,” he praised, lowering his head to take one hard nipple into his mouth and suck greedily.
A gasp tore from her, and she arched her back. He moved to her other breast, taking the pebbled bud in his mouth anew and groaning as he suckled, his tongue lapping over her aching flesh.
When he released her, she was panting, trembling on her knees as he palmed his cock between them.
“Closer,” he instructed, helping her to sidle over him, until her lifted skirts obscured his length from view, and the blunt head of his cock strummed lightly over her inflamed flesh.
He felt so good.
She whimpered, trying not to fall on him.
How in heaven’s name was this meant to work?
“Easy, darling,” he crooned, gliding his cock up and down her seam now, through her swollen folds, slicking himself in the wetness that seeped from her. “Are you ready for me?”
“Oh yes,” she managed, her thighs clenched in anticipation.
“Then sit on my cock.”
Wrong words, sinful words, wicked words.
Words that made her moan and do his bidding, sinking down on him.
He helped her, guiding himself to her entrance as she lowered herself, and then his cock was there.
In her, invading her. Demanding as she impaled herself on him, every glorious inch sending uncontrollable pleasure through her.
Finally, she was seated atop him, and he filled her completely, the angle of his penetration so exquisite she almost wept as he lavished attention upon her breasts anew, his clever mouth making her tighten on his cock.
“Ride me now,” he urged, his hands settling on her waist, showing her what he meant.
She rose, his length gliding through her, and then sank back down, filling herself with him. It was too much. It was exquisite.
“Oh God,” she keened, half certain she was about to die. “Rhys.”
Her hands found purchase on his broad shoulders, and he sucked her nipples as she began moving faster, with greater intent.
“Find what feels good to you,” he urged against the curve of her breast, before flicking his tongue cleverly over the peak. “Make yourself come on my cock.”
A strangled noise escaped her that was not even a word. She rode him faster, harder, bouncing on him until her breasts jiggled, angling her body in a way that made him stroke that place inside her that seemed specifically made for pleasure.
“Yes,” he urged, his expression taut with his own withheld desire, allowing her to use him. “Take your pleasure from me.”
Harder, faster. She watched him as she fucked him, thinking it the most intense experience of her life. That nothing before could have prepared her for this fierce abandon. For the glory of making love to him purely because she wanted to. Because she could.
“Fuck, Miranda,” he ground out, moving beneath her, his hips following the rhythm she had set. “Your cunny is so wet.”
These vulgar words were offered as praise. She loved it. And, it was possible, she loved him . The thought jolted through her in the same moment Rhys slid a hand under her skirts, his thumb unerringly finding her clitoris and stroking.
She spent with a cry that sent a bird noisily winging away from a nearby tree branch, pure bliss rocketing through her like fireworks blossoming across a night sky.
She clenched on him, bringing him deep inside her as wave after wave of release hit, rocking on him, selfishly taking everything she could, all the pleasure, in case she would never again know such ecstasy.
She was still riding him when he stiffened beneath her.
“I’m going to come,” he rasped suddenly.
Through the rushing in her ears from the force of her release, the warning in his voice spurred her onto her knees. His cock slid from her, and then he gripped himself, the hot spurt of his seed painting her inner thigh.
He had been close to spending within her. Agonizingly close. And it astonished her to realize she had wanted him to. That some part of her had thrown caution to the wind in favor of pleasure.
It was in that moment, her heart pounding, skin flushed, hair unbound, half naked and covered in the Duke of Whitby’s spend, that she realized there was one person even more perilous to her future than he was.
And that was Miranda herself.