Unforgivable(32)

He treated her rigid nipples to long, languorous licks that made her writhe beneath him, and all the while, the fingers of his right hand delicately explored every fold and fissure of her quim while his thumb periodically nudged her clitoris.

She was beautifully responsive. She made uninhibited little noises of pleasure, impatiently shifting her hips beneath his hand, silently begging him to push his fingers farther inside her. She said not a word, and that odd mix of boldness and shyness touched him for some reason.

After just a few minutes of kissing and touching like this, she was thoroughly wet, the flesh of her quim swollen with desire. She did not try to reciprocate his caresses, merely lay beneath him, allowing him to bring her pleasure. He didn’t mind in the least. He wanted to watch her come before he did, and concentrating on pleasuring her was a way of stopping himself coming first.

He lifted his head from her breasts and kissed his way upwards, past her collarbone and throat to her ear.

“Are you ready?” he murmured.

“I— Yes, I think so.”

He dealt efficiently with the concealed buttons at the placket of his breeches, pushing them down with his drawers and settling himself between her spread thighs. It was hardly elegant to plough her almost fully dressed like this, but he couldn’t wait another second to be inside her.

She shifted beneath him, her wet slit rubbing provocatively against the head of his cock. God, yes. Gil gritted his teeth.

“I need to be inside you,” he said helplessly.

“Yes,” she moaned, burying her face in his neck, “do it.” Her breath was hot against his skin.

He opened her with his fingers and pushed into her. Christ, but she was tight! Worried, he lifted his head to look at her, but she didn’t seem to be uncomfortable in the least. Quite the opposite. Her expression was all concentrated bliss.

Somehow, Gil managed to rein in his instinct to wildly fuck. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something as far from erotic as he could manage while he established the sort of steady, driving rhythm that he had discovered was the key to pleasing women. After a minute or two, he opened his eyes again, drinking in the sight of Eve’s abandoned expression. There was a moment when she tilted her pelvis, and he slid a quarter of an inch deeper into her. He groaned, stilling briefly, trying to hold himself back. Eve protested with a little incoherent noise of outrage.

“Don’t stop!” she gasped almost angrily. He could tell from her frantic movements that she was close to her climax and felt, as he always did at such moments, boyishly elated.

He braced himself on his forearms and began fucking her in earnest, harder, faster, watching her flushed face with fascination. Her legs tightened around him, her heels digging into his buttocks, and then he felt her inner muscles clenching on his cock powerfully, rhythmically.

She muttered incoherently, “Oh God, I’m—this is—” while he watched her come apart beneath him. She kept her legs locked around his waist while the dying ripples of pleasure shuddered through her. When she opened her eyes, they held an expression of wonder.

It was that that undid him, beyond anything else. He began to ride her limp, satiated body again, this time giving vent to his own pleasure. His vision clouded in the midst of it, his head going back as he felt his cock pumping inside her, spurting his seed deep into her body. And it was beyond anything. Anything.

As the last pulses of his orgasm ebbed away, he lay on top of her small, warm body and kissed her damp forehead, relishing the brief illusion of a more profound intimacy. After a few minutes, he reluctantly rolled away. It was only then that he realised, mortifyingly, that he still had most of his clothing on, and that his breeches and drawers were at his knees. He quickly stripped, Eve watching all the time. She wore a languorous, satisfied expression that pleased him, and she watched him undress with eyes that gleamed with interest. When he was naked, he lay down again, pulling her toward him.

They lay facing one another, and he gazed at her with uncomplicated pleasure. She was beautiful, and he felt like a boy, bowled over by her. He was infatuated by her, certainly. Maybe even in love with her. He could almost feel his heart plummeting now, even though he knew it was ridiculous. He barely knew her! They had hardly spoken.

And yet he could say, quite honestly, that he’d never felt like this before, not even about Tilly. He knew himself lost. And knowing that, accepting it, he allowed himself the indulgence of lying back and drowning in her rain-clear eyes.





Chapter Nine

What time was it, Rose wondered? The clock in the adjoining sitting room had chimed once, perhaps half an hour ago. It was time to sleep. But it was rather difficult to sleep when you were lying beside your faithless, philandering husband for the first time in five long years.