Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(30)

He asked her the question so baldly. Even hopefully. She answered with the truth. “Yes.”

“Good.” His voice was a low, dark thrum. “Good.”

She arched her back, pushing into his touch.

“Yes,” he said. “Show me what pleases you.”

Her boldness faltered. There was admission, and then there was demonstration. But she pressed her eyes closed, gathered her courage, and reached down to cover his hand with her own. She didn’t guide him under her shift but pressed his fingers to her flesh through the muslin, working the smooth, strong friction in just the right place.

Once he’d established a rhythm, she relaxed her grip and melted against the mattress. He kissed her br**sts, her ears, her neck. His skillful touch and talented mouth were arousing sensations different from any she’d ever experienced. This wasn’t a moment’s gratification in the bathing tub. This was an ocean. A vast sea of pleasure, swirling around her, lifting and tossing her in ways she couldn’t control.

The only course was surrender.

Her breath grew ragged, and she writhed, uneasy, on the bed. He fitted his mouth over her nipple and drew hard, teasing the tip with wicked lashings of his tongue. The joy was so acute. A delicious urgency bloomed and spread through her whole body. She dug her heel into the mattress, rolling her hips to meet his touch.

“Yes,” he whispered, abandoning one nipple just long enough to catch the other. “That’s it.”

He removed his hand from between her legs. She whimpered at the deprivation, until he moved to cover her with the full length of his body. He still wore his trousers, but the sheer heat and weight of him were sensual gifts. The hair on his chest teased her sensitized ni**les. His hips nudged her thighs wide, and then the smooth, thick column of his trapped erection settled snug in her cleft.

Yes. This. The firm, perfect pressure was just what she’d needed. He moved against her in a slow, tantalizing rhythm, and she rode his motions.

“Aaron.” She clutched at his shoulders and neck, holding on for her life as the pleasure tugged her in ten different directions.

And then it all came together in one brilliant, shattering wave of joy.

No sooner had her climax ebbed than he was backing away, yanking at the buttons on his trousers and cursing his boots as he stripped to his skin. He pushed her shift to the waist, gazing boldly on her most intimate places. But before she could think to squirm or shy from him, he’d settled atop her again.

His thighs were hard against hers, and covered with hair, much like his chest. The smooth, broad crown of his manhood prodded at her core.

He groaned. “I . . . I don’t know that I can wait much longer.”

“I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

His hips flexed, and he pushed forward.

Inside her.

She buried her face in his neck, determined not to cry out.

He cursed. “It will be better next time. I promise.”

It hurt. It hurt fiercely—so much that only the tang of blood made her aware that she’d bitten her lip.

It will be better next time, she consoled herself as a series of slow, persistent thrusts took him deeper. Brought them closer. It will be better next time.

But once she’d reconciled herself to the promise of Next time. . .

This time started to feel rather good.

She wouldn’t climax again. That wasn’t even a question. But the sublime feeling of being needed, desired, loved with such vigor and passion . . . this was a new, intoxicating pleasure all its own. She held him tight, loving the feel of his flexing, straining muscles as he buried his length deep at the heart of her, then strove to go deeper still.

His motions quickened, grew less elegant and controlled. Her breathing was labored in a way that would have alarmed her in her youth.

Not anymore.

He kept his weight balanced on his elbows, and she curled her neck to kiss him on the chest, the neck . . . anywhere she could reach. She ran her tongue along his collarbone, feeling brazen and seductive.

With a strangled groan, he slid one hand to her backside, holding her tight for a final barrage of thrusts. His face twisted into a mask of torturous pleasure.

At last, he slumped atop her, growling and shuddering with the force of completion. Filling her deep.

He remained inside her, slowly softening as his labored breath caressed her neck.

He was quiet and still for a long, long time. Because they’d earned this, too—this refuge in each other. In all her life, she’d never felt so perfectly loved and safe.

“You can’t know,” he finally whispered into her hair. “You can’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

She turned her head, seeking his kiss. “I think I have some idea.”

CHAPTER 11

Diana slept late the next morning. She assumed everyone in the Queen’s Ruby would.

She’d been back safe in her own bed for less than an hour before the carriages had rattled into the village center. The girls had come tromping up the stairs, giggling and whispering to one another. It would seem they’d managed to have their fun without Diana’s help. She was glad of it. Part of her had been tempted to come out of her room and ask for all the details. She wanted to hear all the news of Kate and Minerva.

But she’d decided there would be time enough for those questions in the morning. Her night with Aaron had left her blissfully sapped of strength, and she was supposed to be ill.