Chapter 7 #2
She closed her thighs around his hand, wedging his palm against her body. “Don’t stop,” she begged. “Please don’t stop.”
He pressed a finger inside her, and when she gasped out her pleasure, added another. His mind was a white-hot blank, an incomprehensible swirl of Margo’s voice, the sight of her body, and need, so much need—the need to be inside, the need to make her come.
He rubbed his thumb at the apex of her sex, finding her most sensitive place.
His pace was fast and firm, and it seemed a bare breath before she cried out, rocking against him, her wet heat clenching in rhythmic waves around his fingers.
He felt wild, his emotions careening out of control, huge impossible satisfaction rising at the knowledge that he could bring her pleasure with his body.
That he’d made Margo fall to pieces with his mouth and hands.
She came down slowly, her eyes blinking open, and he watched her face, his body tense and vibrating with desire. Her lips curled—his favorite sight—and then she threaded her fingers through his hair and brought his mouth down to hers again.
There was no end to the pleasure he took in her. He kissed her slowly, finding the shape of her mouth with his lips and his tongue. He wanted those crooked front teeth to dig into his bottom lip, and when she obliged, he felt drunk on pleasure.
He found himself pressing his fingers into the lines of her rib cage, savoring the edges of her body, the hard and soft.
He kissed her jaw, her ear, her collarbone.
The tips of his fingers brushed the undersides of her breasts, and she whimpered.
Her fingers untangled from his hair and swept down his back, and the faint pressure of her nails was a whisper, a graze, not enough.
“Henry,” she whispered, “you’re shaking.”
God, he was. And when her fingers coasted down his body, traced his hips and his buttocks, then closed around his prick through his smalls, he nearly wept.
“I want to touch you,” Margo said. “I want to know—what you like.”
“You,” he managed. His voice was dark and unfamiliar. He had never felt like this before, his nerves close to the surface, his cock so hard he felt it in the top of his skull.
She grinned and his heart leaped—or possibly his desperate erection. She was so lovely, loose and pleased, and he had made her so. He kissed the corner of her mouth and then reached down to strip off his smalls.
She made a sound of hungry delight, and when he looked at her, he saw her eyes were fastened on his cock. Her expression was enormously gratifying, and for all that he was nearly insensible with desire, he found he wanted to laugh.
But it was Margo, so that only seemed right.
He’d shifted down when he’d removed his undergarment, and since he was level with her breasts now, he put his mouth back on her skin.
She gave a husky little moan, and he swirled his tongue across the plump weight, tasting her, teasing her.
He licked her nipple and then moved down to the soft curve of her abdomen, his teeth finding the line of her ribs.
“Oh,” she said, and her hand went to his hair again. Not to pull him back this time. No, Margo was shoving him down between her thighs.
Now he did laugh, a muffled vibration into the red curls at her sex, and she gasped and arched up against his mouth.
Fuck, this was—more than he had been prepared for. The smell of her arousal was all around him, and somehow his hands had found her arse, and it was perfect, heavy and lush. He pressed his nose against her, licked up into her, and stars exploded behind his eyes. This was Margo. This was real.
She was pleading, begging—he couldn’t make out her words. Her voice sounded raw, and her hips made sharp frantic pulses against his face. He was going to come, probably, his cock grinding into the floor, and he didn’t much care, not when Margo’s cunny was hot and wet and desperate on his mouth.
But her fingers tugged into his hair, pulling him up before she broke.
“I need you,” she said, “please, Henry—”
Her hips rolled. His cock leaped. He had what she needed and he could give it to her—yes, as hard and deep and fast as she liked.
He fisted himself—his body jerked—and he pressed the head of his cock to her entrance.
Her arousal made her slippery, his body pressing into hers, the first sensation of her hot wet channel around him searing in its pleasure.
But for the first time since her mouth had touched his, he hesitated.
This was something new, something irrevocable. After this, he would no longer be a man who loved Margo, helplessly and from afar. He would be a man who had loved Margo, had loved her in this intimate and consuming way. Had been inside her body.
He could never love her from across the room after this. He would not be able to sit and watch her drink sherry and laugh after some dinner at Number Twelve, watch the candlelight flash sparks off crystal and burn in her hair.
Slowly, slowly, he pushed inside her. It felt impossibly good. Never had he felt such raw, blinding pleasure, such shattering bliss.
She was inside him, too, under his skin, in his heart, and he could not separate his want and his love and his need for her. He could not take a breath without her scent in his nose, and when he pulled back and drove hard into her body, her hips met his stroke for stroke, two halves made one.
The crisis was quick. Almost before he’d been fully seated inside her, he’d felt the coming pulse of his orgasm, and when her body rippled around him, Margo finding her pleasure with a hoarse cry, he blindly withdrew, trapping his cock between their bellies and jerking hard against her, spilling his seed on her skin.
When it was done, he felt a painful, mindless surge of the same instinct that had driven him to warm and dry her. He needed her to be safe, to be protected. He lifted her and the discarded blankets and carried her to the bed.
She laughed and put her hand to his jaw, and the sweet low sound and her touch were more than he could bear. He had wanted too much, for too long—gladness felt like fear. He stretched his body out alongside hers, tugged her head to his chest, and buried his face in her soft, woodsmoke-scented hair.