Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(62)

Sit down, a voice reminded me. I nodded, agreeing, and then moved to sit. Not there! Next to her.

“That’s right,” I mumbled, rubbing my forehead. Picking my way through the abandoned picnic items, I took a seat in the vacant circle of blanket adjacent to hers.

She leaned to one side as I sat, to give me room, but didn’t skootch away, instead turning toward me, her arm brushing along mine as she placed the plate on her lap and picked up a strawberry. I’d barely settled, my legs stretched out in front of me and crossed at the ankle, when she lifted the berry in front of my chin, her eyes on my mouth.

“Here. They’re warm from the sun.” She smiled softly, bright eyes reflecting the blue of the sky, warm golden freckles seasoning pale skin, the sunlight shimmering in her copper hair. Gorgeous.

Watching her watch my mouth, I parted my lips and she gave me the nub of fruit, her lips also parting, her tongue peeking out as I bracketed the berry with my teeth, holding it in place but not biting. She seemed mesmerized, in a daze, her gaze unmistakably hot, intent, like me eating a strawberry was the most fascinating thing in the entire world.

Pressing my tongue against the fruit, I bit. She blinked. I licked my lips of the excess juice as her fingers moved away, slowly depositing the leafy remainder on her plate, her gaze still fastened to my mouth, and her hand falling like a feather until it landed on my leg. Just above my knee.

The weight of her hot palm was impossible to ignore. Nothing about this touch felt light. I hoped Jethro and Beau were right. I hoped her touching me like this meant she wanted me to touch her because my hands were already moving. Our surroundings, as beautiful as they were, faded away and I saw only her. Her breathing had changed and the haziness in her eyes grew restless, pointed, lifting to mine as my fingertips connected with her bare thigh, less than an inch below the lacy, pink hemline.

Maybe it was madness, but I surrendered.

I was going to lift her dress just as I’d imagined moments ago. The need to act burned within me, the flames fanned by the small, eager puffs of air with every rise and fall of her chest.

I’d barely spoken to her since being locked in that room. But in this moment, I couldn’t see past the desperation in her—unquestionably mirrored in me—to do something. Anything. Close the gulf between us with actions in much the same way we’d closed it last week with words.

However, even as frantic as I felt, to lay her back and touch her soft skin, lick and taste and suck on her sweet flesh, and make all these wishes come true, I needed her to say it. I would never, could never assume.

“Scarlet, do you want—”

“Yes,” she said, looking and sounding like she was in pain. “For God’s sake, yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

As though she couldn’t wait another second, she grabbed the front of my shirt, yanked me forward, and kissed me.





Chapter Fourteen





Claire





“There is no fulfillment that is not made sweeter for the prolonging of desire”

Jacqueline Carey, Kushiel's Dart





He kissed me back. No hesitation. Just like that, like he was ready, like he’d known it was going to happen. Like he’d planned it. My back hit the blanket, my fumbling fingers in his hair, and his hot mouth consumed mine as he climbed over me, his tongue sweeping inside, demolishing, taking.

These weren’t the sweet, searching kisses from our past. This was a monster, a beast fed by years of need and frustration and raw desperation. Now my hands were under his shirt, touching the hard ridges of his stomach, the smooth skin of his shoulders, and the coarse hair of his chest.

Something broke.

I mean, inside me something broke. Just clear broke. Like a glass full of water hitting a tile floor at full speed. I wasn’t thinking. There was no thinking. There was no thought. There was only his greedy mouth on my neck, his fingers tearing at the ties of my dress, his hands on my body, hiking up my skirt, cupping me through my panties. And then he moved my underwear and his fingers were inside.

I heard my breath hitch and I felt my hips push forward.

I felt frantic. So frantic. He parted me, the soft pad of his middle finger circling, and I whimpered. He made me feel so much, he always had, feelings that were both necessary and dangerous in equal measure. It didn’t feel safe, what we were doing. The sensations and heat and mindlessness were the opposite of safe. I was in peril. I was lost. And I didn’t care. I didn’t fucking care.

“Scarlet. Touch me. You feel perfect.”

He needn’t have told me. My hands were already moving, my fingertips and nails scraping against his glorious torso on their way inside his shorts. And then my fingers were around him and he felt like heaven and sin and solid rock, and I swear I almost came. Low in my belly my body clenched, tightened, begged me to please, oh please, end this suffering. I suffered. It hurt.

I stroked the thick, hot length of him and he stilled, then quaked, his big body shuddering. “Wait, wait. I have no condom.”

“I don’t care.” I did not care.

Actually, part of me did care—the irrational, hysterical, wackadoodle part. The part that wanted to issue an impregnation invitation. Please. Impregnate me. Let’s make some babies! NOW!

I wanted him, needed him inside me and my hands on him and his mouth on my breast more than I’d wanted or needed anything. More than I wanted to be safe, or well, or good. I couldn’t think about those things. They didn’t matter. Only this mattered.