Page 90 of Marrying the Nanny

She thought she was going to climax from dirty talk alone. She hugged her knees to his ribs and said, “Yes. Hell yes.”

He chuckled wickedly and started pushing at her clothes in earnest. She did the same, dragging at his while she pulled at her own until they were both naked and kissing, diagonal on the bed, hands all over one another. He was firm and fierce, his buttocks like iron against her fingernails, his mouth a predator that swept into hollows and sought her most sensitive, tender bits of flesh—her throat, the underside of her breast, the thin skin next to her mound, and the slick channel between her thighs.

She groaned, biting her lip, bathed in fire as he ravaged her. His arm hugged her thigh so she couldn’t escape while two fingers slid deep to torture and make her writhe.

“I want to have sex,” she gasped. “I can’t wait.”

He kept making love to her with his mouth, with his touch, with tender aggression until the intensity was more than she could withstand. She came. Hard. Harder than she’d ever climaxed in her life. In a rush that stung to her fingers and toes, quaking her insides and making cries of release catch jaggedly in her throat.

As the pulses rocked her, he rose over her and thrust in. Hard. Deep. He held himself like that, hands cupping her head, mouth hovering near hers.

“I couldn’t wait anymore, either.” His voice was rasped with sex and hunger and possessiveness.

She lifted a weak arm to bring his head down to kiss her. She tasted herself on him, erotic and exciting. She was still shivering with postorgasmic trembles as he began to pump his hips.

A keening noise of fresh desire rose in her throat. She thought she might have said, “Oh, fuck.” It was all she could think, that he was fucking her and it was so good. Better than anything she’d ever known in her life. He wasn’t being gentle about it, either. He meant it. He hooked an arm beneath her knee and spread her to take the firm slap of him driving into her. His shoulders strained and his fist closed in the blankets next to her cheek.

Each thrust coursed a fresh flood of incendiary pleasure through her. Excitement. Tension. Greed. She used her inner muscles to cling to him, bit at his lips, scraped her thumbs across his nipples, and lifted her other knee to take him deeper.

He was really close, she could tell, and she wanted him to lose it, didn’t care that she wouldn’t come again before he did. This was just so good. She loved seeing what she was doing to him. He’d taken her apart and now it was her turn to rock his world.

He pushed up on straight arms, fierce gaze going down her front to watch himself moving in and out of her. “Tell me when,” he said in the darkest most sexually charged voice she’d ever heard.

“It’s okay,” she panted. “I want you to come.”

“You first.”

She was too hungry to be self-conscious. Or self-sacrificing. She slid her hand between them, stroked her taut wet flesh, explored the shape of him sliding in and out of her. She worked her fingers against her swollen clit for mere seconds and her sheath clenched. Her vision went white and another ferocious orgasm slammed through her.

His hips crashed into hers in a frantic, uneven rhythm while he swelled and pulsed within her, animalistic noises pouring over her.

*

Reid didn’t remember sinking onto Emma, just arrived at the awareness of her crushed beneath him, her breath uneven while he tried to catch his own.

He managed to pull out and shift off her, but that was all he had in him.

What the hell had just happened? One minute he’d been thinking he wanted to give her the best head of her life; the next he’d been fucking the life out of both of them.

“Are you okay?” He might have left bruises. He was appalled.

“Yes,” she purred, rolling into his side.

Her lips grazed near his nipple, which shouldn’t have got a response, but a light shiver went through him. His skin was incredibly sensitive, as though layers had been peeled away. Every part of him—physical, mental, emotional, psychic—was unprotected. Exposed and susceptible.

It was as disconcerting as the near violent response he’d had toward Em’s brother for treating her with such indifference.

He needed to pull away, regain his composure, and get a grip on himself, but he had the wherewithal to realize she would be hurt if he rolled away and walked into the shower the way he wanted to. Needed to.

A cry from the other room saved him.

Emma picked up her head and looked at the clock. “That might be our fault,” she groaned. “Poor Trystan will have a cranky baby this evening.”

“I’ll get her.” Reid sat up.

“I will.” She rose and picked her robe off the chair, slid her arms into it. “I’m coming, Storm,” she called.

Reid embraced the moment alone to regroup. He hadn’t meant to have sex when his emotions had been running so high. If he’d been in his right head, he might have been more patient, but between her brother’s attempt to get her to leave and her tender feelings about all of it, he’d felt something rise in him. Something possessive and primal that needed to mate.

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