Say Yes to the Marquess(90)

An invitation.

And this was one invitation he would never refuse.

He began at her ear and kissed down her neck, all the way to her collarbone. His hand had drifted to her breast of its own accord. While kneading one, he kissed the other, nuzzling close to her violet-­scented skin.

Even if they lived and made love for fifty years—­and he fervently hoped they did—­Rafe didn’t think it would ever cease to astonish him, that she wanted this. His big, roughened body rubbing against her soft perfection.

He laid her on her back and kissed his way down her belly, pausing halfway down to prop his chin on her navel and gaze up into her face.

“I’m going to make this good for you,” he promised. “Beyond good. I want . . . I want cake sounds. No, scratch that. I want Rafe sounds.”

She laughed a little. But as he slid a hand up her naked thigh, her laugh became a sigh of pleasure.

“There’s my girl. That’s a start.”

He finished kissing his way down her belly, then dipped his head lower. She startled. He held her hips tight.

“It’s all right. If you trust me.”

“I trust you.”

He didn’t take that gift lightly. He stroked her first with his fingers, parting her folds with the pad of his thumb, and pushing just an inch inside. When she gasped and moaned, he took the encouragement.

He nudged her legs apart, wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. And then he sank between her thighs, laying his tongue to the very heart of her. She bucked in surprise at the first contact, but he wouldn’t be deterred. He teased her with slow, lapping strokes of his tongue. He loved the taste of her. She was so sweet, with just the right amount of tart.

“Rafe.” She touched his shoulder. “Rafe, are you sure—­”

“It’s all right.” He spread her wide with his thumbs. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

She cried out in pleasure. Her thighs clamped together, catching his head like two sides of a vise. He wasn’t going anywhere now. So he settled into his task, teasing and tasting. Learning her every contour, her every response. Within moments, she was panting for him.

“Yes,” she moaned.

He moaned, too. His cock throbbed vainly where it lay trapped against the bedsheets.

When he couldn’t wait any longer, Rafe crawled his way up her body. Keeping his weight on his arms, he nestled his hard, aching cock in the cradle of her sex. He made no move to enter her. Not yet. He just rocked his hips back and forth, stroking her where he knew she’d like it the most. Giving them both more heat, more friction.

More teasing, maddening bliss.

“Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, Rafe.”

He loved this feeling. It wasn’t just the joy of pleasuring her—­though that was brilliant, in and of itself. It was this heady, superhuman awareness, the intensity of focus that could push him out of his troubled mind and make him feel he could do anything. In all his life, he’d only ever felt this way when fighting.

Until now. Until her.

As he slid back and forth, he balanced on his arms above her, watching her every reaction. The steady crescendo of her pleasure was like a captivating story. One written in pink brushstrokes across her pale skin.

She was so beautiful.

And ready for him, judging by the slickness gliding between their bodies. It was a damned good thing, because he couldn’t wait much longer.

“Please,” she whimpered, fisting her hands in the bed linens. “Soon. Please.”

He took his cock in hand and positioned himself at her entrance. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this.”

Gritting his teeth, he teased them both by sliding the tip of his erection in, then out. “Tell me you want me.”

Her eyes opened and locked with his. “Rafe. I want you. Only you.”

He felt like a god as he pushed into her. Omnipotent. Arrogant. Possessing the keys to Paradise.

She was wet, but so tight. What felt nigh-­on glorious for him had to be hurting her. He didn’t try to sink deep all at once but instead moved forward in gentle, steady thrusts. Still, her expression tightened with every inch he advanced.

He paused. “If you’re hurting, tell me to stop.”

“Don’t stop. I love this. I love you. There’s just . . . a great deal of you to love, that’s all. Be patient.”

Be patient, she said.

But patience was her strength, not his. Rafe was approximately as skilled at patience as he was at embroidery. He was already drawing on every available reserve of self-­control. He was still only halfway inside her, and wild to bury himself to the hilt.

He reached between them, touching her in just the right place. Those small circles of his thumb were his only motion. He tensed every muscle of his body, determined to hold the rest of him utterly still.