His fingers pushed beneath her panties as his lips lifted from her breast and moved to hers once again, covering them. His kisses sipped at her lips, stroked them, stole reason and objection as his fingers continued their journey and slid between the lush, saturated folds of her sex.
Sensation lashed at her body as the callused tips of his fingers rasped through the narrow slit, parting the swollen folds before caressing lower, rubbing against the clenched entrance to her vagina.
The feel of her juices spilling to his fingers, eagerly welcoming his touch and tempting him further, had her thighs tightening in an effort to ensure that pleasure remained.
Oh God, just for a minute. Let her feel that rush of indescribable sensation for just a little while longer.
“Shh, it’s okay, Gypsy.” Rule’s voice was thick, filled with hunger as she realized the whimpers she could hear were falling from her own lips.
“It’s okay, baby, I promise. I have you. You can let go of my wrist, sweetheart.”
She had hold of his wrist?
She had to force her lashes open, feeling dazed and uncertain as her gaze fell to where her nails were digging into his wrist.
Then the heated rush of moisture that spilled from her at the sight of his broad hand filling her jeans caused her hips to jerk upward. The punch of sensation that attacked her womb stole her breath.
“I’m just petting you, Gypsy. That’s all.”
Her eyes lifted to his once again, shocked, a cry parting her lips as his fingers rubbed at the aching entrance of her body and the hard pad of his hand pressed against her clit.
“I don’t do this.” She could feel the fear trying to ease into the pleasure, trying to destroy her acceptance that her body would feel pleasure with such mind-numbing force, that it could ache or want or grow wet for such a touch despite her knowledge of what she would have to leave behind.
“Yet how pretty you are as I pleasure you.” His gaze darkened, his lips pulling back from his teeth to reveal the sharp, overlong canines as her body spilled more of her slick response to his fingers.
His expression was tight with his own pleasure. Yet where he was deriving that pleasure from, Gypsy had no idea. And as his fingers slid through the thick layer of moisture covering her folds to the swollen bud of her clit, Gypsy’s thoughts splintered as a strangled cry of pleasure tore from her lips.
“Your body was made for pleasure,” he crooned, his lips lowering to hers once again, taking brief, hard kisses that kept her aching for more.
His hand moved again, her fingers tightening on his wrist as he stroked from her clit to the entrance of her vagina and back again. Stroking, rubbing at each, sending waves of need clashing through her senses as her hips arched, her body begging for more.
Each stroke of his fingers tightened the pleasure building in her womb, in the tight throb of her clit and the ache in her pussy. She could feel it, like a band tightening between those pleasure points, stretching tighter, the need for more growing with each second.
“Rule,” she moaned, though whether in protest or plea she had no idea. “Please . . .”
She had no idea what she was begging for, what her body was burning for. This was so unlike her own touch or the toys she kept that it was laughable to even compare the two.
This was addictive, brutally ecstatic, and she wondered how she would ever be the same now that she had known it.
With each stroke of his fingers between her thighs, her hips lifted to him, begging for more, aching to be touched deeper, harder.
Pulling back from the narrow entrance to her vagina, his fingers circled her clit, the firm, rubbing caress sending a shower of pure pleasure arcing through her body. The swollen bud throbbed, the ache tightening as Gypsy felt a building wave of sensation threatening to burst through her.