Page 83 of Duke It Out
“So did I.” I wriggle free and tug the shirt loose from the waistband of his kilt, desperate to feel his skin.
“You did?” He pulls back, his green eyes dark with desire. “Did you touch yourself thinking about me, Edie?”
Heat rushes to my face but I meet his gaze and nod.
Something flashes in his eyes – satisfaction or hunger, or both. His brow crooks wickedly.
“Show me.”
I take his hand and guide it to the neckline of my dress. “Here,” I say, as his fingers trace the edge of the fabric, dipping just below to brush against the swell of my breasts. I draw in a sharp breath.
“And then?”
“Then here.” I move his hand lower, over the velvet of mydress, past my waist. His hand is splayed out, his thumb straying close to my core. He presses me harder against the door, his thigh between my legs, creating a delicious pressure exactly where I need it.
The heavy leather sporran is pushed up against my thigh and I glance down for a moment.
“Especially designed to disguise how hard I am for you,” he says, laughing.
“Really?” I look down at it for a moment. He takes my hand, guiding it downwards until I feel his cock, solid under the rough fabric of the kilt. Okay, no.
He shakes his head, laughing as he unfastens the belt holding it in place and throws it across the room. “For the elimination of doubt, Edie,” he says, his mouth against my ear. “I don’t think anything could disguise it.”
“Ruined for life,” I say, echoing his New York words back at him.
“Don’t even fucking go there,” he says, with a half laugh, half groan.
And then somehow, he’s pushing me back against the bed and the long skirt of my dress is rucked up and he pauses for a moment, looking down on me with an expression that makes me feel both powerful and utterly vulnerable.
“I want to see you,” he says, reaching for the zipper at the side of my dress. I nod and shift slightly to help him as he peels the velvet away, revealing the lingerie I’d chosen with more care than I’d like to admit – black lace against my pale skin. His eyes darken further.
“Christ, Edie.” The words are strained. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
I’m about to say something flippant, something to break the tension, but then his hands are on me, and I forget wordsentirely. His thumb grazes my breast for a moment, brushing against the hard pebbles of my nipples before he unclasps my bra.
“Fuck,” Rory says, dropping his head to my breast. His mouth sends a jolt of pleasure through me.
He undresses with quick efficiency, tossing aside the dark shirt and waistcoat so he’s standing before me in nothing more than the dark kilt. His body is exactly as I remembered it – broad shoulders, a muscled chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing into his waistband. The thistle tattoo on his forearm seems to move as his muscles flex as he kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands sliding up my legs, pushing them apart.
“I’ve thought about the taste of you since that night,” he says, his voice low. “I want to know if you’re as sweet as I remembered.”
My breath hitches as his finger catches at the edge of my underwear, and I’m aware just how wet I am as my hips lift almost involuntarily. He hooks the sides and draws them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. And then he pushes my thighs apart and bends his head.
His movements are slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. A trail of kisses land on the soft skin of my inner thigh, and my hips lift up to meet him.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out in surprise. I feel the pressure of it, steady and measured, as if he’s memorising me. My hands reach for his hair, holding him against me as pleasure builds low inside me. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Rory.”
I feel the tip of his tongue before his mouth closes on me, sucking gently before he dips downwards, trailing throughmy centre lazily, as if he’s taking his time at a feast. And then his fingers join his mouth, two pushing inside me as his tongue circles slowly, steadily. He crooks them inside me, and my thighs start to shake against his shoulders as the pressure builds, tension coiling low in my belly.
He’s unhurried, slow and relentless. I feel as if I’m being broken apart, all the pieces of me coming loose as if I’m melting into the bed.
I’m balancing on the edge until?—
“Come for me, baby,” his voice is low and rough and then his mouth is on me again and I’m gone. Pleasure crashes over me in waves.
He stands after a few moments, his eyes dangerously dark and his mouth glistening.
