Chapter 13 #2
Just when she thought she could take no more, his thumb found her nipple through the cotton, circling it, and she felt as if there was a string, a wire, running from where he touched her directly to her core.
The pressure was building, building, and she could only imagine she was dripping with desire by now.
“These sweet tits,” Bull murmured, breaking the kiss to stare down at where his hand was reverentially working.
He squeezed her breast, then found her nipple again, this time rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
The sensation shot straight to her core and she arched into his touch.
“So fooking perfect, Rose, so perfect. Christ, love, I’ve been dreaming of this… ”
Wait. He had?
All this time, Rosie had thought she’d been the one to pursue him, the one holding an infatuation.
But he’d been dreaming of her?
Yes, yes, perhaps. But for now, could we get back to the reveling in these sensations, please and thank you?
Right.
Bull tugged on her nipple as he nuzzled her neck, and Rosie couldn’t contain the needy sound that escaped her as she pressed her shoulders against the door behind her. Her hands clutched at the towel around his shoulders to stay upright as he moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention.
Then his mouth was there, hot and wet even through the cotton of her nightgown. He suckled her nipple through the cotton, the sensation was so intense her hips bucked wildly and she nearly came undone right then.
How could he make her feel like this while she was wearing her most shapeless, practical-for-cold-Scottish-nights nightrail?
“Bull,” Rosie whimpered as he switched to her other breast, his tongue circling the peaked nipple before sucking it into his mouth. His teeth scraped over the sensitive bud, and she cried out.
“So fooking responsive,” Bull praised, his voice rough.
“Love hearing those little sounds ye make.” His teeth scraped again.
“My Rose.” Then his mouth covered her nipple again as he squeezed her other breast, and her fingers curled in his hair trying to hold him in place, trying to capture these sensations.
She should have known he would understand what she needed.
Bull’s hand slid down her belly, over her hip, cupping her aching mound through her nightgown. Even through the fabric, she could feel how wet she was—and from the way his eyes darkened, he could too.
“Christ, Rose. Ye’re soaked for me.”
She nodded frantically, her hips pushing into his hand. She needed more, more, needed something she couldn’t quite name.
Bull understood. He always understood. He gathered the hem of her nightgown in his fist and yanked it upward, baring her legs, then higher still. His hand found her bare cunny and they both groaned at the contact.
“Nae drawers,” he noted, his voice strained. “Did ye plan this, lass?”
But her Bull didn’t wait for an answer. His fingers slid through her wetness, exploring, gentle yet determined, and when he found that sensitive spot at the apex of her folds, she gasped.
He circled it slowly, watching her face as he did. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me see ye feel me.”
Rosie rocked against him, her fingers still twined through the hair at the base of his neck. His gaze held hers and she couldn’t have looked away, even if she wanted to. Because she didn’t want to; this was Bull.
This was Bull, and he was loving her.
Finally.
He increased the pressure, fingers moving in steady circles, and her pleasure—the exquisite pressure—built behind his touch.
When he slid one callused possessive finger inside her, she nearly sobbed with relief.
He slid it out once, then in again, curling up into her as his thumb kept circling that bundle of nerves.
Then as if that weren’t enough, a second finger glided into her soaked channel, stretching her, filling her…Rosie stiffened, but as he curled both fingers forward, stroking her from the inside, she felt herself melting against him.
“So tight,” Bull groaned, shuddering as he worked her. “So wet, so perfect. Can ye come for me, Rose?” He buried his face in the crook of her neck, as if he could only focus on one thing at a time. “Come for me…”
“Bull…” she whimpered, clawing at him and her pleasure, teetering just out of reach. Why wasn’t he giving her more, and yet how could there be more, when he was already giving her so much?
His lips brushed against her skin. “I want to feel this sweet cunny squeeze my fingers, love. Fooking use me again, ye ken how—”
The crude words combined with the relentless pressure sent Rosie over the edge.
Her climax hit her like a wave, pleasure crashing through her body as she clenched around his fingers.
Bull worked her through it, his fingers never stopping their soft strokes, prolonging the sensations until she was shaking and boneless against the door.
“Beautiful,” her lover murmured, finally stilling. “So fooking beautiful when ye come.” He kissed her neck. “Thank ye.”
Thank you? Thank you!
Rosie couldn’t think coherently. She wasn’t sure she had a brain. She could still feel her inner muscles spasming lightly around his fingers, every squeeze a flutter of delight, but she knew she should be thanking him!
And what had he meant, again? Did he remember the way she’d ground herself against him that first night in the inn? Did he know she’d used him, half-asleep, to find pleasure? Did he really not mind?
“Bull!” Rosie tugged at his hair, lifting his head until she was staring, wide-eyed, into his gaze. “That…that was…fooking hell.”
A laugh burst out of him as he slid his fingers from her, and her hips rocked forward, trying to maintain contact as long as possible. “Do ye ken how arousing ye are, love?”
This time when he kissed her, he pressed his own hips forward and she felt his hardness throbbing against her stomach. Yes.
This was what she wanted. What she’d been hoping for, what she needed.
Eagerly, Rosie dropped her hands to his waist, fumbling for his trousers. They weren’t buttoned? He hadn’t had time! She caught his lower lips between her teeth and tugged as she thrust her hand into his trousers and eagerly wrapped her fingers around his cock.
His large cock.
His large, throbbing cock.
Bull hissed and bucked against her hold, pressing her against the door with his body, plundering her mouth as she stroked him.
Rosie might be a virgin—or was she? Probably not at this point—and she hadn’t been a complete innocent for ages.
She’d seen him naked, for instance, stripped him off herself, and had done her share of reading of particularly enlightening books such as A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts, which Merida had shared with her a few years ago.
Besides, no one could study classical art without seeing a cock or seven.
But all those Renaissance-era phalluses? Those little wee things hiding shyly behind fig leaves?
Nothing compared to finally having Bull’s cock in her hand!
Rosie slid her palm along its smooth hardness, curling her fingers around the head, brushing the bead of moisture across the tip. With a little wiggle Bull’s trousers fell a bit farther until they were held up only by that tight arse of his, and she was able to hold him with both hands.
With a gasp of delight, Rosie wrenched her mouth away from his, only so she could nudge him back a bit and glance down. Fook, seeing her own hands stroking his cock? She felt powerful. Seductive. Alluring. And when he moaned and dropped his head forward so his long auburn hair covered his eyes?
She wanted to crow with victory.
“You feel good, Bull,” she whispered, wanting to be as crude as he had been a moment before. “I want to make you feel good. Am I…you might have to tell—do you like this?” She slid both hands along his length hopefully. “Am I doing it right?”
“Fook me,” her man rasped. “If ye do it any better, love, I might die.”
Rosie felt herself grinning. “Yes, I think that is what I would like.” Slowly, Bull lifted his head so that intense gray gaze met hers, and she smirked in clarification. “I would like you to fook me.”
Holding his gaze, she swiped her thumb over the tip of his cock, then lifted the unsteady hand. Knowing she had his attention, Rosie made a show of licking his wetness off the pad of her thumb, swirling her tongue around the digit.
Bull had frozen, his hips canted forward into her other fist, his breathing slow and steady. She saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes, then a slight wince pull at the corners of his eyes. He closed those eyes, exhaled, and when he opened them, she saw acceptance there.
Yes! Yes.
He stepped away from her, pulling his cock from her hold and reaching for his trousers. Rosie was already leaning forward eagerly…when he yanked them back up again and buttoned them with efficient movements.
“Wha—” she began, but that was all she was able to say before he reached for her nightgown and yanked it up and over her head.
“Bull!” Her objection was muffled as they fought with the serviceable cotton. “What are you—pfft. What—”
“There.” He nodded with satisfaction as he stepped back to leave her nude, holding her nightrail in one hand, his hungry gaze sweeping over her. His eyes lingered on the ring he’d given her, now hanging from a ribbon dangling between her breasts “Ye’re a piece of fooking art, Rose.”
She resisted the urge to cover herself in embarrassment, although she suspected she might look a bit like a tomato. Or one of her mother’s damask pink roses.
In an effort to hold onto that feeling of power she had so reveled in, she planted her hands on her hips and scowled. “Fooking art, Bull? Hmmm? Why are you wearing so many clothes, then, pray?”
Fine, it was only one article of clothing—his trousers—but it was one too many. Bull didn’t reply, but he did smile wickedly and step forward once more, dropping her nightgown and reaching for her.