Chapter 12 #2
Wren shook her head, her hands going to the hem of his T?shirt.
“I haven’t felt cold since you kissed me,” she told him, her voice a couple of octaves lower.
She slowly pulled his shirt up his chest, and he helped her by gripping the fabric behind his neck and pulling it over his head.
Her hands skated over his body, across his chest, his nipples tightening as she made contact, then they explored his stomach.
She flirted with the band of his boardshorts, hanging low on his hips.
She placed her mouth on his chest, just over his heart, and gently kissed his skin. “I love your body,” she murmured.
He stroked her hair, down her back. The moment was passion-saturated, but a level below, something deeper, more intense, buzzed between them. A vague suggestion that this went deeper than mutual lust.
He held the back of her head and couldn’t resist kissing her forehead, holding his lips there for a few heartbeats. He looked down, and her incredible eyes slowly lifted to meet his.
“Shower or bed?” he asked, his words just above a whisper.
“Bed.”
Dane smiled. “Excellent answer,” he said and scooped her up to carry her up the stairs. He’d spent many hours imagining her in his bed, and now he got to see how good his imagination really was.
As he was to discover, it wasn’t good at all. It was goddamn amazing. Wren was more than he ever expected.
Dane lowered Wren to his bed and pulled her green and white floral cover-up off her luscious body.
She lay on his white cotton in her bikini, and he took in her toned body, loving her finely muscled legs, her flat stomach, her round, high breasts.
Her hair spread out across the bed, messy from his hands tunnelling through the long strands.
Wren lifted her hands, and his breath hitched when she fiddled with the clasp holding her bikini bra together.
She pulled her top apart, revealing her lovely breasts, plump and firm, her dusty pink nipples taut with anticipation.
Needing her, needing everything about her—her smile, scent, and sex—he dropped down, placed both hands on either side of her shoulders, and lowered his head.
He pulled her nipple into his mouth, sighing as he finally got to taste her.
He swirled his tongue around her bud, pulled it to the roof of his mouth.
He placed his knee between her legs, felt the heat of her core, pushed into her, and switched to her other nipple, kneading her free breast with his hand.
Wren writhed beneath him, and her hands streaked over his bare back, over his butt, up his thighs, trying to touch him wherever she could.
Moving down, he kissed her ribcage, moved over her stomach, and gently tugged on her belly-button ring with his teeth.
Hooking his thumbs under the cords holding her bikini together, he pulled the scrap of fabric down her hips and dropped it to the floor.
He looked down, taking in the teeny, tiny patch of hair.
He rested his nose against her, hauling in her unique scent, letting it settle over him, her heat blasting.
Gently, so gently, he flicked his tongue to touch her most sensitive spot, and she lifted her hips, instantly seeking more.
No, he was going to do this on his timescale, not hers. He placed his hand flat on her stomach, gently holding her down as he nibbled, tasted, stroked, retreated, moved down, moved up…
His mouth was on the inside of her thigh when she started to beg, her words coated with desire and need.
He lifted his head to see her thrashing from side to side, her skin flushed.
She looked like a woman on the edge. He wanted to know how far he could go, how much she could take before she came, so he dragged his finger through her folds, flicked her clit, and slid his finger inside her.
She clenched around his finger, and he smiled.
This. Wren, naked, panting his name. This was what dreams were made of. “Dane, I need you.”
He tapped her deep inside, and she released a low scream. She was so close… “How much do you need me?” he demanded, his voice guttural. He needed more, wanted to hear her beg, to tell him that she was as desperate for him as he was for her.
“God, you’re killing me,” she moaned, half sitting, resting on her elbows. “I want you inside me, like … fifteen minutes ago.”
He slid in another finger. “I want you to come on my fingers first.”
She glared at him. “No, there’s only one first time, and I want to come on your cock, with your mouth on mine, your hands under my butt, so close we’re not sure where one of us starts and the other ends.”
He stared at her, suddenly realizing how much he wanted that, too.
Jolted into action, he pulled away, yanked at the cord holding his boardshorts up, and dropped them to the floor.
He heard Wren whisper something complimentary—she could go into more detail later—and leaned across the bed to grab the box of condoms he’d placed in the drawer when he first arrived in H-Town, more out of habit than expectation.
He ripped off the cardboard lid, groaning when Wren’s small hands encircled his cock, her thumb wiping a bead of moisture off his tip.
His eyes widened as she placed her thumb to her mouth and sucked.
“Mmm.” Her eyes dropped to his now still hands. He’d forgotten how to move. She nodded at the box in his hands. “Need some help there, doc?”
His mouth twitched at her comment, loving the fact that they could smile during sex. “I think I’ve got it,” he told her.
“Yeah, but you’re not doing anything,” Wren told him, snatching a condom out of the box.
Sitting up, she used her teeth to rip it open and withdrew the latex, sliding it over his cock, before lowering her hand to cup his balls.
His eyes crossed, and every cell in his body caught fire.
With a satisfied smile, she lay back, spread her legs, and tipped her head to the side.
“Come to me, Dane,” she murmured, her hand sliding between her legs. “I need you.”
He lifted her hand off her body; it was his job to give her pleasure, so he tested her readiness himself and dragged the tip of his cock across her clit. As he expected, she arched her back, whimpering sexy nonsense.
Settling as much of his weight on her as he thought she could handle, he teased her some more before entering her with a smooth, long, probably too ferocious stroke. He stilled, looked at her, and waited for her reaction.
“Why did you stop?” Wren whined, nails digging into the skin of his butt. She tapped his ass. “Move, dammit!”
That was one order he was happy to obey, and he started to thrust, trying to keep control, to make it as good for her as he could, to last as long as he could. Then Wren lifted her hand, gripped his jaw with her small hand, and waited for his eyes to meet hers. He cocked an eyebrow.
“Stop trying to control this, to control me. I need you wild, and I need you now,” she told him, her hips lifting and slamming into his. “Stop. Thinking.”
It was an order he was happy to obey. He upped his pace, held her tighter, plunged deeper, and she met him at every level, demanding more.
Demanding everything. She was the first woman able to take him wild, who wasn’t scared of his strength; it was the first time he didn’t have to think.
He rode her hard; she bucked against him, fighting for her pleasure, and when he thought he couldn’t hold off another minute, when the pressure in his balls became impossible to hold back, she came hard against him.
Dane detonated, and caught between space and time, between then and now, he roared as pleasure spun him away.
* * *
Outside Dane’s cottage, Silas heard the slam of the front door and, hands clasped behind his back, began pacing the road.
He had seen them wrapped in each other’s arms, but he’d looked away when their lips met.
He could not, for the life of him, believe the dancer was in Dane’s house so late and without a chaperone.
He had been around long enough—seen enough—to know that impropriety thrived and decorum was a notion long abandoned. And yet … he was still utterly astonished. It was reckless abandon, and he was convinced, not for the first time that week, or even that day, that the world had gone mad.
In his day, courtship had its strict rules. Manners were everything. Observing the codes of conduct marked a gentleman. Were there any gentlemen left in the world, he wondered?
He had been on the cusp of considering courtship himself—little Mary May, the vicar’s daughter, sweet, quiet, and reputedly an excellent cook, had caught his eye—when war swept him away.
He had never gone beyond exchanged glances and afternoon tea, so he had no experience with women or love.
And yet, the doctor and the dancer seemed … something beyond his knowledge.