Page 115 of The Rogue and His Flower

Lust, passion, need, want, I feel it all in that moment as our mouths collide in a soul-searing kiss. It all comes pouring out of me as I wrap my hand around her back and curl my fingers tighter in her hair. This kiss, fuck. This kiss is like a match being struck against jagged rock. It’s flammable,consuming, marking my heart with scorching heat. Flames lick against my tongue as I fuck her mouth, taking ownership, feral in my need to claim her as my wife, as mine. She whimpers, clawing at my chest, her fingers curling around my t-shirt as she kisses me back, matching my desire, meeting me stroke for stroke.

This kiss is dangerous for all the reasons I’ve been running from. Daisy is no longer my best friend’s off-limits sister, she’s not just the girl I used to love to hate, she’s not only my friend, she isn’t just my wife, she’s so much more.

So much more.

And all the words I cannot say come pouring out of me in this kiss. All the feelings I’ve been avoiding, that I’ve kept guarded, are unleashed as I kiss her with every fibre of my being. I don’t hold back. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and before long we’re both dropping to our knees, collapsing under the undeniable weight of our feelings as we ravage one another. Feelings I can’t seem to untangle, feelings that are alien to me, yet I don’t run from. Don’t want to.

“Fuck, Daisy, the things you do to me!” I groan, gently tugging on her bottom lip with my teeth, drugged by the headyscent of her, the beautiful way she moans against me, the way her fingers curl into my hair tightly as though she can’t bear to let go of me, anymore than I can her.

But I can’t fight it. I can’t fucking fight it anymore.

I’m lost to her.

My whole fucking body is alight, aware of every touch she blesses me with, every desperate kiss, every moan and whimper. Her flowery scent fills my nostrils as I drag in a deep breath, my hands roaming her sun-kissed skin, this need in me to consume her is overwhelming.

“Dalton, please,” she begs, and that’s all it takes for everything to fall away. Our messy past dissipates as we kiss and lick, as we fuck each other’s mouth with our tongues.

Before long she’s lying on her back and I’m pressing the hard ridge of my cock against her core, showing her just how much I want her, noneedher. Placing one hand in the warm wood beside her head, I push upwards, staring into her beautiful eyes. Her hair is spread out around her, tangled and dusted with speckles of white sand from spending the day at the beach.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, wife,” I murmur, rocking my hips, my cock rigid against her warmth, as she parts her legs further and presses up against me in a slow, sensual rock of her hips.

“My husband,” she whispers, and it’s the first time I’ve heard her call me that as she reaches up, her hand cupping my check, the gentleness of her touch making a shiver run down my spine.

God, hearing those words does something powerful to me, and I lower my mouth to hers in a soft, whispering kiss, my fucking heart punching a hole against my ribcage. Her hand slides into my hair as she offers me her neck, moaning breathily as I slide my lips across her jaw and press an open-mouthed kiss against her thundering pulse, wanting to capture the beat of her heart, consume it, keep it safe.

“Look at you,” I mutter, feeling the heat between us, the pooling liquid between her thighs as I rock against her, desperate, fucking aching to be inside of her.

If I’ve learnt anything sleeping with a multitude of women, it’s not just the feral act of fucking that brings a woman to orgasm, in most cases it’s the build up, the foreplay. But I am ashamed to admit that in the past I’ve been so consumed for the need to fuck, to bring women sexual pleasure that I never took the time to care about the emotional connection.

Daisy has taught me how tocare, to have empathy, to be kind. She’s opened something up inside of me that I don’t want to let go off. Seeing her laugh, catching her smile, feeling the warmth of her joy is as much a turn on for me as the way her body is so receptive to my touch now.

I want all of that and more, but the way Daisy seems to submit to me now, I get the feeling she wants to give herself over to me in this moment, and I’m more than happy to take the lead.

Shifting lower I press my mouth against her clavicle, swirling my tongue over her sun-kissed, salty skin. I draw my teeth lightly over the tender bone, edging my mouth lower as I cup her breast over the soft cotton of her dress, my fingers sliding beneath the thin strap so I can pull the material lower. Slowly, I reveal her skin, inch by beautiful inch, until her tight pink bud is millimetres from my lips. I blow across the puckered nib, and she groans, arching her back, pressing herself into the wet heat of my mouth.

“Dalton,” she whimpers as I swirl my tongue around her areola. She clasps me against her chest, urging me to take, to give, so she can receive.

So I suck on her, dragging my teeth gently over her sensitive skin, licking my tongue over her flesh, hollowing out my cheeks as I pull her nipple into my mouth, the gentle sound of wavesbuffeting against the jetty, is a melody matching the rhythm of our hearts.

“Oh God,” she cries, lips parted, her cheeks and chest colouring a soft pink.

She liquifies beneath me, and this sense of intense pride floods my system as she unravels. No, as sheblooms.

Daisy, my beautiful flower.

“Mine,” I mutter against her chest.

Releasing her breast, I edge lower, pushing up the skirt of her dress and bunching it up beneath her breasts as I blaze a trail of kisses over her freckle-splattered stomach. One day I intend to kiss every single freckle, but right now I want to make her come. I want to hear her call my name as I bring her to the edge of orgasm, as I keep her there hovering over the precipice, then allow her to fall so she can come, long and hard.

I don’t know much about her past sexual experiences, but I do know that I want to erase every single memory of any other man she’s been with and replace them with only thoughts of me. A possessiveness unfurls like an intolerant beast inside of me at the thought of someone else touching, kissing, licking, fucking what’s mine, and I shuffle downwards, my head between her legs, my hands gripping her hips possessively. Dropping my gaze, I see the wet stain of her arousal seeping through the cotton of her knickers, hugging the lips of her pussy and I can’t help myself, I drop my nose to the wetness, breathing in her heady, musky scent.

“Fuck, Daisy. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” I grind out, my cock painful in my arousal.

But this moment isn’t about me, and that in itself is a revelation. In the past I’ve always been guaranteed a release of my own, knowing that it will be a million times better when the women I’ve fucked have orgasmed before I have. Yet, right now, I expect nothing in return. This is all about Daisy, my focus issolely on her and not my need. At this moment, despite how much I want her, I’m not ruled by my addiction, I’m at the mercy of my developing feelings, and my need to give, not take.

“You’re mine,” I repeat as she rocks her hips involuntarily, her slit sliding over the bridge of my nose.

I react instantly, rearing upwards so I can curl my hands around her panties, and pull them free, wanting to give her everything she desires, needing that more than anything.

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