Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(37)

She stopped moving, allowing me to get close enough for her to reach out and put a hand on my dick, which was thick and hard under my jeans. “Am I?”

I grabbed her by both wrists and pushed her up against the hallway wall, pinning her arms above her head. “I’m going to give you one chance to come to your senses, Sylvia.”

“And if I don’t?” She strained against me, pressing her breasts into my chest.

I put my lips at her ear. “Then I’m going to spend the rest of the night doing very bad things to your body.”

“Do them,” she whispered. “I’m begging you, Henry. Do them.”

Hearing my name on her lips like that—hearing her beg—flipped a switch in me. I was done asking permission, done worrying about whether this was right or wrong, done trying to talk her out of something I so desperately wanted—no, needed—to do.

I crushed my lips to hers, plunging my tongue into her mouth. My hands moved down her body, along curves covered in red, and I wanted nothing more than to tear that dress from her skin with my teeth.

But first I had to taste her.

Dropping to my knees, I shoved her dress up her hips and reached for her underwear—except she wasn’t wearing any.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whispered, the bulge in my jeans growing even bigger. “You knew what you wanted when you came here tonight, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, breathing hard. “So don’t stop.”

I lifted one high-heeled foot and kissed the inside of her ankle. Her calf. Her knee. I placed it over my shoulder and kissed my way up her inner thigh.

She flattened her hands on the wall beside her and gasped as I put my mouth on her pussy, stroking up the warm, slick center with my tongue, lingering at the top. I moaned at her sweet taste, at her velvet-and-satin texture, at the irresistible scent of her. I teased her clit with the tip of my tongue, and reveled in the way she moved her hips, and put her hands on my head, and tightened her leg against my back, pulling me in closer. She panted and sighed and murmured incomprehensible words of pleasure and disbelief. The leg she stood on trembled.

“I’m so close,” she whispered, and I sensed something like fear in her voice, almost like she was afraid her orgasm wasn’t going to happen. “Don’t give up.”

Give up? Was she fucking serious? Why would I give up? It made me wonder if her husband was an even bigger asshole than I’d previously thought.

But half a second later, he was out of my head.

I slipped one hand between her legs and slid one finger easily inside her, then two, searching for the spot that would put her over the edge. I knew I’d found it when her body tensed up and I felt her muscles contracting around my fingers.

“Henry,” she said, almost frantically. “My God, it’s going to happen. It’s going to fucking happen, and it’s been . . . so . . . long.”

Beneath my tongue, her clit was firm and swollen and I sucked it into my mouth, flicking it with quick, hard strokes. She cried out repeatedly, her fingers fisting tightly in my hair, her entire body going stiff except for the rhythmic pulse of her orgasm around my fingers.

Fuck, it felt good to make a woman come, to know that I was giving her that kind of pleasure, to hear her sounds and taste her desire and see her bare before me. To touch her and kiss her and fuck her with my tongue just because I wanted to. And because she wanted me to. She wanted it so badly she’d come here in high heels and a red dress with no panties underneath.

And that wasn’t all she wanted.

“Come here,” she panted when she could talk again, yanking on my shirt.

I rose to my feet and she reached for my belt. “I want to get my hands on you,” she said against my lips. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

I groaned as she undid my jeans and slid her hand inside, wrapping her fingers around my cock. Fuck, it had been too long—if she kept working me with her hand like that, I was going to lose control and come all over her fingers.

Not that I’d mind a hand job from someone other than myself for once, but that wasn’t how I wanted this to go.

I took her hand off me and spun her around. She braced herself with two palms against the wall. I’d only intended to unzip her dress, but seeing her like that—the long, silky hair spilling down her back, that dress hiked up above her ass, her thighs bare, those high-heeled shoes—I couldn’t help myself.

Pressing up against her back, I lowered my lips to her ear. “Spread your legs.”

She stepped out slightly.

“More,” I told her, pushing my jeans down enough to take out my cock.

When her legs were opened wide enough, I paused. “Do we need to be careful about—”

“No,” she said breathlessly. “All good.”

I slid inside her, slow and deep. A guttural sound escaped my throat—she was warm and wet and soft and tight. She gasped and whimpered as her body stretched to accommodate me, arching her back and sliding her hands up the wall.

God, I hoped she left handprints. I’d fucking frame them.

Gripping her hips with both hands, I began to move, rocking into her with deep, rhythmic thrusts that made her cry out every time I plunged inside her. It felt so good that I forced myself to slow down, breathe, take it all in—if I only had one night with her, I was going to make it one she never forgot. I buried myself as deep as I could, sliding one hand between her legs and rubbing circles over her clit with my fingertips.