Page 20 of Bedding his Innocent Mistress

He knew what she wanted and so did she. What she needed.

His lips sought hers, his hands pulled at her shirt. A button popped off; she heard it thud against the wall, but it only registered in a small part of her mind. The part not absorbing every detail of what it was like to have this man’s hunger for her overwhelming her senses.

She pushed at his shirt, lifting it from the waistband of his pants, needing to feel his skin. He made a guttural noise when she found the buttons and undid them, faster this time, needing him but knowing that it was inevitable. She dug her nails into his back, his skin soft beneath her touch. His hands were demanding as they pushed at her skirt, and he growled into her mouth when it didn’t give.

“Zip,” she muttered, moving one hand to her back but he found it before she did, his fingers sliding down the golden metal, loosening the skirt so that she could step out of it as she moved forward, closer to him, so that they were almost melded together.

Her skirt was a puddle of black on the white tiled floor. He lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist, holding her tight against his erection, his hands tangling in her hair and he kissed her as though they were drowning and this was their only hope for survival. Their desperation was a shared one; it was a current dragging them under, they clung to each other out of necessity, need.

“I have been hard for you since that morning,” he

chastised into her mouth and she ground her hips down, brushing him against her, despite the barrier of fabric their underwear created.

The lights were off in his bedroom; he flicked them on. The full overhead lights glowed and Ivy blinked a little. “I want to watch you come,” he explained, so simply and honestly that the words alone practically produced the result.

“Okay,” she whispered, but his lips were on hers again, chasing her as he manoeuvred her backwards onto the bed. It was soft, and it smelled like him. She breathed it in, her body on fire. The last lingering doubts gave way.

This was the right decision.

She wanted him with a ferocity that almost bowled her over; how could that be wrong?

He drew her underpants down her legs, now with a slow concentration, a torturous journey that she wanted to expedite. She kicked her legs impatiently and he laughed, a throaty rumble. His hands dragged over her body, her underpants crumpled in one hand, and as he reached her wrists, he straddled her, so that only his silk shorts separated them from coming together.

He fed her wrists into a leg hole of her briefs, his expression unreadable, as he looped them through one of the metallic slats of the bed head, then caught her other wrist through a leg hole, crossing her wrists so that she was effectively trapped.

Ivy’s eyes met his. “Clever,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen my knickers used as handcuffs before.”

His laugh was a rumble. “I’ve been fantasising about getting you tied to my bed since you disappeared into thin air.”

“Like your very own sex slave?”

“Si.” He dropped his mouth to her breast and she sucked in a sharp breath. It was a cool night, but that wasn’t why her body pulsed with goose bumps. She pulled at her wrists. The fabric strained but didn’t give. The angle her wrists were on made it impossible to loosen them. Or maybe not impossible, but there was something so erotic about being his prisoner that she didn’t want to try too hard.

His tongue found her throbbing femininity and she cried out, loud, sharp, a visceral acknowledgement of relief as he drove her to climax, immediately. Not immediately. It had been hours of awareness. Every step, every movement had reminded her that she was on sexual tenterhooks, waiting for the pleasure she so desperately needed.

“Rafe,” she groaned, lifting her legs to give him better access. His laugh against her sensitive flesh was an added eroticism. She wiggled her hips, her whole body tingling as the stubble on his face grazed her thighs. “I need you.”

She felt him smile against her. He breathed warm air over her and then he stood, staring down at her, his chest moving rapidly. He pushed his shorts down, slowly, his eyes not leaving hers.

“I need you,” she said again, impatient and desperate.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He unfurled a condom over his length and her eyes followed the movement of his long, confident fingers, wishing she was running her own hands over him instead. She pulled at her wrists once more and he laughed.

His body on hers was heaven.

She arched her back, her legs folded, knees facing the ceiling. He brought his mouth down on hers at the same time he thrust into her in one swift, possessive motion. Hard, fast and deep. Dominant and demanding, just like his kiss; just like the hands that were dragging over her body as though verifying she was as he remembered.

“You taste like champagne,” he said quietly, thrusting into her.

“You taste like me.”

His groan was acknowledgement of the eroticism of her imagery. Cristo, she was unique.

“You surprise me,” he said, dragging his mouth along her jaw, flicking his tongue against her earlobe as he moved inside of her.

“I’m glad.” She shuddered as sensations began to tremble in the pit of her stomach, whooshing through her, spreading like wildfire and then she was tumbling down a steep, terrifying hill, like when she’d learned to ride a bike and not been able to find the brakes. The intensity of feeling was overwhelming. She brought her legs around his back and cried out as pleasure made thought, awareness, speech almost impossible.

She was high on the wave as he came with her, his own hoarse voice mingling with hers, an animalistic sound of release she didn’t even hear because her own heart was throbbing so loudly in her ears.

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