Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(79)

Torture.

Her hand cupping my jaw; the press of her knee between my thighs; her gentle breath falling over my face—did she have any idea? Did she understand how every feather touch and soft sigh doubled the ache in my body, the excruciating need to put my hands on her?

I’d been pushed over that edge between pleasure and pain, ecstasy and agony. I couldn’t think, every inhale like fire. I was suffocating and I’d officially reached my limit.

But just as I’d lifted my hands to set her away, she said, “There. All done.”

The towel at my eyes was tugged to the side, used to dab at my face, as my hands—now without purpose—sought her hips and I comprehended how truly thin the fabric of her nightgown was. That too was torture, but not as severe since my mind quite suddenly determined pushing her away had ceased to be an option.

I opened my eyes. She hovered above me, her attention following the progress of the warm towel at my jaw.

“Do you want a mirror?” she asked, and my stare dropped to her mouth.

She was so damn sexy, a goddess of both carnality and sweetness. Now that I’d tasted her, I also knew all her colors. The shade of her lips was the exact same shade as her clit, a fact I would never cease to forget every time we kissed.

“No,” I said, my hands moving down her hips to the hem of her nightgown. Without asking permission, I brought my middle finger to the apex of her thighs and gently stroked her through her underwear.

Her movements stilled.

“I need you,” I said, meaning the words in so many different ways.

She closed her eyes, a rush of air leaving her, her hands dropping to my shoulders, gripping them as though to hold herself upright.

My other palm caressed the back of her thigh and I was held transfixed by the chaotic arrangement of her features, her abrupt loss of composure. Sliding my hand into the back of her underwear, I kneaded the flesh of her bottom as I continued my feathery stroking at her center.

“I need you,” I repeated, gently pulling aside the scrap of fabric and drawing a tender circle around her entrance, finding her just as I remembered—hot, wet, and so fucking soft.

Scarlet’s legs seemed to wobble, and she swallowed, her hands at my shoulders grabbing fistfuls of my T-shirt. “Please, Billy,” she panted, her voice high and strained. “I—I need you too. So badly.”

I stood, drawing her nightgown up as she stumbled backward, the chair behind me upended in my haste. Her bra was off next and I lifted her in my arms, carrying her to the bed in three large strides. Her fingers in my hair, her mouth fused to mine, I relinquished her lips only long enough to tear off my shirt and lie beside her. I could not stop touching her body, my hand at her breast, cupping her exquisite softness, glided down to her backside, grabbing hold. I wanted to feel her everywhere, all at once, with every part of me.

She tore her mouth away, gulping in air. “Billy.”

“Too rough?” I asked her neck, climbing over her, needing the feel and sight of her beneath me.

“No, God, no, I just—take off your pants.”

My hand slid to the front of her hip and then lower, cupping her, encouraging her to open her legs for me so I could reach within her panties and dip my fingers inside. I groaned, raw and unsteady, I bent to bite her jaw, her neck, drawing her wetness from her body and painting the circle around her clit with two fingers. “I want to make love to you.”

“I want you too,” she said on a short, choppy breath, her hands frantic at my fly, yanking down the zipper and shoving her fingers inside to grip and stroke me. I hissed, pressing into her hand, my hips jerking. Fuck. I needed to be inside her.

In a hurry, she helped me push off my pants and boxers, but I captured her hands before she could remove her underwear.

“Let me,” I said, hungry, starving for a taste of her velvet sweetness.

Her lips parted as I slid down her body and bit her waistband, tugging her underwear lower with my teeth. Sliding the lace to her knees, then ankles, I knelt between her open legs and bared her body to my eyes. And then, my mouth watering, I tasted her arousal with the flat of my tongue, holding her gaze beyond the soft mounds of her breasts, teasing the back of her legs with my fingertips before entering her with two fingers.

Scarlet pressed her head back against the mattress, her back arching off the bed. “Wait . . . I need, I want—”

I knew what she needed, what she wanted. With one more sucking French kiss, I rose up and settled my hips against hers, using my erection to stroke her with no preamble but a whole hellavalot of restraint.

She gasped, her eyes rolling back as her eyelids closed, her fingers twisting in the sheets at her sides and as her back arched again. She spread her legs wider, as though anticipating and accommodating the weight of me, baring all her most vulnerable places for my gratification—her neck, her breasts and stomach, the clenching entrance to her body.

An invitation.

“Billy,” she said with a desperation verging on anguish, and it fed some starved part of me. I couldn’t get enough of her desperation, of her pleases, of her asking for and wanting me. I bent again to taste her skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. My fingers plucked at her nipple, taking a bite of her as I continued stroking the softest part of her with the hardest part of me.

There. The heat of her pulse point beat beneath my lips, her heart raced. Her chest rose and fell with harsh breaths, like she struggled with the anticipation of what might come next.