Page 28 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
His cock throbbed in desperation, but he couldn’t take the time or the attention away from his task to fumble for the buttons and free it. Instead he gripped it through his trousers, squeezing and stroking in time to the way his fingers thrust in and out of her.
“Fawkes,” she gasped, rocking her hips forward, as if she could impale herself on his tongue. “Oh God,yes.”
She was close. He could feel it. He couldtasteit.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured against her. “Let it happen.”
His tongue brushed against the little nub of her pleasure, and she mewled in response, her inner muscles tightening around him.
God help him, he wanted nothing more than to pull his cock free and spear her down atop it. But the time for that was past. They were both too close—
His teeth scraped gently across her delicate bud, and she screamed.
Actuallyscreamed.
Screamed wordlessly as she came, drenching his mouth—his tongue, his lips, his chin—with her release, pushing his head closer, deeper, harder.
It was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced, and when his pleasure burst over him, exploding against the inside of his trousers, he wasn’t at all surprised.
Fook.
Fawkes couldn’t breathe—didn’twantto breathe. But when she finally released him he inhaled deeply, the scent of her coating his nostrils, his tongue, his lungs, hisbeing.
Fooooook.
With a gasp Ellie pulled his head away from her cunny, but instead of stepping back, she fell atop him. Perhaps her legs gave out—he could understand that—or perhaps shewantedto be there. Either way, she landed, straddling his thighs, her wetness pressed against the damp patch of his trousers.
And her hands cupping his temples.
This close, the midnight blue of her eyes blazed, and he wondered how he could have ever thought them too dark. The pupils were large, their movements erratic as her gaze flicked over his face, not settling on any one place for too long.
His chest still ached from the franticness of his breaths, and now his hands settled on her hips. Hewantedto wrap them around her, settle in the small of her back. He wanted to pull her to him, to plaster her against his chest, his heart.
But she’d come to him for one very specific purpose. And he’d failed her.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not certain he was going to admit it until the words left his lips.
Her chin jerked up, as if startled at his words, andsomethingchanged in her eyes. Her expression softened from incredulity to…something else. Something softer. Her lips parted, as if she had something to say.
And then she pulled him down and brushed those lips across his.
Fawkes felt his fingers dig into her hips, as if he could anchor her there, as he chased her mouth to deepen the kiss.
It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t desperate.
It was gentle and apologetic and exploratory, all at once.
This was a woman who should have learned to kiss before; a widow. Hiscousin’swidow.
But she was kissing him as if he were her very first.
And something crowed in Fawkes’s chest.
He wanted to wrap her in his arms, in his soul.
Fook, ye dobber. It’s just sex, it’s no’ as if ye have to start spouting sonnets. She’s using ye, remember?
Except he’d failed her.
