Page 67 of The Beast of Beswick
A smile drifted over her lips, and her eyelashes lowered. “Then, by all means, proceed.”
And he did, touching his tongue to the sweet peak of her breast, lavishing his attention and adoring the husky moans falling from her lips. He licked into her cleavage and moved to the other breast, feasting on her like a man starved. It astounded him how passionate she was in her response, as ifshewantedhimwith the same fervor as he wanted her. She writhed her bottom into his straining erection, making him gasp.
“Thane,” she begged. “I want…I need…”
“I know, sweetheart. I feel it, too.”
That consuming, inexorable need that wouldn’t relent until it was satisfied. He took her lips in an untamed kiss, his tongue tangling with hers in blatant simulation of the act they were both beginning to crave. She gave as much as he, licking, sucking, nipping, until they clung to each other, panting. Thane reached beneath her flimsy skirts, sliding up a warm stockinged ankle and then a rounded calf. He skimmed the indent at the back of her knee, climbed past her garter to one silken thigh, the softness pared down from years of riding astride.
He blinked, his knuckles brushing soft maidenhair and bare skin. “You’re not wearing any drawers.”
“Undergarments wouldn’t work with the design of the gown,” his vixen of a wife responded, blushing furiously before tucking her head into his neck. “You don’t like it.”
With a growl, he ground his hips upward. “Does it feel like I don’t like it?”
He cupped her sex boldly, one finger sliding between her slick folds. God, she was already damp. She was wet forhim. Everything male in him crowed like a rooster in a henhouse, satisfaction curling through his lust-hazed mind. He stroked again, and her thighs clamped around his hand, holding him there and rocking gently. The erotic feel of it and the thought of her gripping his cock with those lean muscles made him wild.
As if reading his thoughts, Astrid levered herself into a sitting position and shifted her skirts to the side as she twisted, flinging one knee over his legs, to straddle him. His erection strained against the placket of his breeches, pressed against her hot, bare center as he was. She fumbled at the fall of his pants. He stalled her hand with his.
“Astrid. Not here. Not like this.”
He wouldn’t take her in a garden, like some shameful, furtive coupling.
She faltered, her lovely eyes meeting his. “Why?”
“Because you’re my wife, not some tart.”
She grinned at him, though her expression was marred by a touch of shame. “And what if I wish to play the tart, Your Grace? I’ve been accused of that and more, you know.”
Thane blinked, but his surprise gave way to resolve. He wanted to wipe that spark of shame away. Whatever had happened in her past did not define her, did not mar how beautiful she was inside and out. She was a warrior. His goddess.
“If you’re a tart,” he whispered, “then what does that make me?”
Her lip curled at the corner. “It’s different for a man. You’re expected to sow your wild oats, while women are expected to stay at home and cook them.”
Thane nibbled at her neck. “That does seem unfair, doesn’t it?”
“Why do men have to hold all the power? Is it so hard to want equal footing? To be judged on the same merits and by the same standards?”
He traced her lower lip with his tongue, delving in sweetly, just once. “Tell you what—I won’t judge you if you don’t judge me. We’ll go into this…er…” His mind blanked.Tupping? Lovemaking?
“Sexual congress,” she supplied helpfully.
Thank God for smart women with fertile vocabularies.
“Yes, that,” he agreed. “As equal partners. And if you require more, I will happily hand over all my power to you, Queen Titania, as the matriarch, if you will.”
“As provocative an offer as that is, I prefer equals.”
Her smile was radiant, and Thane wanted her so badly, it was agony. Worse than any pain he’d ever endured. He meant it, though—in this moment, he existed only for her. He thrust his hips hard, making her eyes widen as an indecent shock of pleasure shot through them both. Astrid bolted into action, nimble fingers releasing him from his breeches and shoving her skirts out of the way to position her body. Her eyes met his, and she worked her tight passage down to the hilt.
Fucking hell.
Thane nearly spent himself then and there.
Hubris and the patriarchy were grossly overrated.
Chapter Eighteen
