Page 42 of Some Like It Wild
Connor groaned, nearly undone by the thick tears of nectar Pamela’s body was weeping for him. He wanted nothing more than to accept her unspoken invitation. To whisk away the sheet that separated their naked flesh and urge her forward and to her knees, where she could better accept what he was aching to give her. He wanted to rub himself in the delectable cream welling up between her legs, then bury himself so deep inside of her she would no longer be able to tell where her body ended and his began.
But this wasn’t some stranger he had paid to couple with him. This was Pamela. Brave, bonny Pamela who was bold and foolish enough to defy an armed highwayman with a toy gun, throw herself in front of Crispin’s sword, and take the biggest risk of all by coming to his bed in the middle of the night, her feet bare and her hair unbound.
As he dipped his finger into her, marveling at how tight and hot she was, she arched into his hand. He wished it was his mouth—wished he could sample her musky sweetness, nip that swollen little bud with his teeth and use his tongue as a whip to drive her over the edge of ecstasy. But for now he had to satisfy himself with capturing her chin in a fierce grip and tilting her face to the side so their mouths could meld in a hot, hungry kiss.
As Connor’s finger glided in and out of her, pushing deeper with each foray, Pamela writhed against him. He was persistent yet patient, and she was terrified he was just going to leave her teetering on the cusp of bliss until she expired from anticipation.
“There’s no rush, sweetheart,” he whispered against the corner of her mouth. “I’ve got all night to make you come.”
But he wouldn’t need all night. All it took was a second finger added to the first and a flick of his thumb and rapture went spilling through her in shuddering waves. She opened her mouth to cry out his name, but his hand was there, muffling her broken wail before she could wake the entire household.
As Connor felt the fevered silk of Pamela’s body grip his fingers, he arched against her bottom, clenching his teeth against a spasm of raw lust. He was on the verge of losing control and spilling his seed without even being inside of her, something he hadn’t done since he was a lad of sixteen.
It hardly helped his predicament when she wiggled around in his lap and threw her arms around his neck. As she rubbed her smooth cheek against his beard-stubbled one, he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the angels singing. What he heard instead was:
Once there was a bonny cook
With legs as stout as trees.
One squeeze from those dimpled thighs
Could bring me to me knees
“Oh, hell,” Connor swore as the muffled voice came drifting through the door. He buried his face in Pamela’s throat, his own voice so hoarse with lust he barely recognized it as his own. “If Brodie walks through that door right now, I swear to God I’m going to shoot him.”
Pamela pushed against his shoulders, her hands gentle but firm. “I should go.”
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t. If you stay, I promise I won’t shoot him.” His mouth glided down her throat, savoring the salty sweetness of her sweat-dampened flesh. “I’ll just hit him over the head with something very heavy. Maybe an iron poker or the clock from the mantel. We can hide his body in the window seat. It’ll be days before they find him. The cook will thank us.”
She cupped his cheeks in her hands, forcing his head up so he could meet her glowing gaze. “I don’t want him to find me in your chamber.”
“You could hide under here.” Giving her a hopeful grin, Connor reached to lift the sheet covering his lap.
She grabbed his wrist, the shy downward flick of her gaze and her admiring swallow softening the sting of his disappointment. “I really don’t think there would be room.”
Connor sighed. Brodie was whistling now, the cheery sound swelling with each step. Biting off an oath, Connor tucked the sheet around his waist, swept Pamela up in his arms and went striding toward one of the windows.
Pamela clutched at his neck, her eyes widening in alarm. “What are you going to do? Toss me out the window?”
“Do you trust me?” he asked, balancing her weight with one arm as he shoved up the window sash with his other hand.
“No!”
His response to her vehement declaration was to kiss her—long and deep and hard—until she was just as dazed and limp as she had been in those moments after his deft fingers had coaxed her over the brink. Before she could clear her mind enough to protest, he had wrapped his powerful hands around her wrists and was lowering her out the window.
For a dizzying moment, there was nothing beneath her pinwheeling feet. Then she felt her toes connect with something solid and realized he had lowered her onto a broad shelf of a ledge that jutted out over the window below his chamber. From there she could easily swing into a nearby sycamore tree—to a spot where the branches formed a broad cradle.
“You can climb down to the garden from there,” he called softly down to her. “The branches are close together—like a ladder.”
Clinging to his wrists for dear life, Pamela gave the distant ground a dubious look. “What if I’d rather spend the night up here?”
“Then you might have some explaining to do to the gardeners in the morning.” He leered down at her. “Especially since you’re not wearing any drawers.”
She clamped her knees together, having forgotten that small but important fact. Glowering up at him, she eased her wrists from his grasp, swung from ledge to tree and began to clamber toward the ground, feeling her way along each branch with painstaking care.
When Brodie eased open the door and slipped into the chamber, Connor was still standing at the window.
“Are you still up, lad? I thought you’d be long asleep by now.”
