Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(33)

With his teeth, he dragged her skirts to her waist, and he wedged his hips between her spread legs, grinding his buckskin-trapped erection against her aroused flesh.

This was so good.

And so wrong.

A flicker of doubt chased down his spine. It was the middle of the day. Pouring rain outside, yes, but someone could come in at any moment. Someone from the rooming house might be looking for her.

Were they really going to do this?

Her slender legs locked around his waist. The heel of her slipper dug into his flank—like a spur, prodding his inner beast.

Oh, yes. They were going to do this.

He tightened his grip on the pointed ends of the anvil, bracketing her hips. “You’ll have to take it from here.”

She reached between them and worked the closures of his trousers, slipping each button free with small, sure fingers. Then those same fingers reached inside and found his straining cock, drawing him out and guiding him to her core.

She was wet and ready. A low groan eased from his chest as he slid deep.

Sweet . . . holy . . . damn.

How many nights had he taken himself in hand and imagined just this scene? Perfect, refined, delicate Diana Highwood propped on his anvil, milk-white thighs spread wide. Panting for him. Her back arched in pleasure, her br**sts overflowing her bodice as he took her, pounding a forged-iron erection into her willing heat, again and again and again. She’d always been his favorite erotic fantasy.

But the reality? The reality surpassed his every imagining.

He could never have pictured it like this. The sounds of rain sheeting down, battering the smithy roof. The small, private clouds of their mingled breath. The scent of laundered muslin mingling with raw, animal lust. And God, the feel of her. Her velvet heat hugging his cock. So tight. The sweet vise of her legs locked over his hips. The delicious bite of her fingernails on his neck.

I want this, too, her body told him. I want this, I want you. I want more, more, more.

With a low growl, he tightened his grip on the anvil and redoubled his pace. He would give her more. He would give her everything.

“Aaron.” Her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. “Aaron, wait.”

He froze, breath heaving in his chest. Damn. She’d come to her senses, realized she was a gentlewoman being crudely tupped on the anvil in a village smithy. Bloody hell. He was a rutting bastard.

Maybe he could apologize. Make it up to her by carrying her to the cottage and his bed.

Or maybe she’d just leave. Forever.

“I . . .” He didn’t know what to say or do. He just hoped she didn’t weep.

She looked up at him with sultry, heavy-lidded eyes. “Touch me,” she said huskily. “Get me dirty. I don’t mind.”

Sweet . . . holy . . . damn.

Outside of muttering his way through Sunday service, Aaron had not voiced a conscious prayer in more than ten years. He supposed it wouldn’t help his chances in the hereafter if he returned to the fold with Saints preserve me from premature ejaculation. No matter how sincerely uttered.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and slowed his thrusts to a languid roll. She held fast to his neck but relaxed her arms, so that she hung pendulous beneath him, affording them both the space to watch.

She looked on, wide-eyed and breathless, as he slid one hand to cup her breast. Her body arched into his touch. His thumb made a dark, rude streak over the pale muslin. Marking her.

She gave a sharp cry of pleasure, and her intimate muscles clenched around him.

Tight.

That cry she gave . . . it was a cry of relief, born of keen anticipation. As if his rude, gritty touch was what she’d been waiting for all this time.

Touch me. Get me dirty. I don’t mind.

“I’ll be damned.” He blinked away a trickling bead of sweat. “You’ve been wanting this, too.”

She bit her lip and blushed. Her lashes fluttered coyly. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

Aaron chuckled low, dragging his caress from one breast to the other. Of course she wouldn’t admit it so easily. That would spoil the fun for them both.

But he knew the truth now. She’d pictured this. Dreamed of this. Perhaps even sent her hand beneath the coverlet and touched herself while imagining just exactly this.

Damn, he loved her.

And he was going to make this good.

He made his voice low and smug as he thumbed her hardened nipple. Smearing soot in a lewd circle. “Don’t play innocent, Miss Highwood. You’ve been wanting this. A hard, sweaty pounding from the village smith. These strong, dirty hands all over your body. You’ve been wanting it, haven’t you?”

“I . . .”

He withdrew halfway, then slid deep. “Haven’t you?”

As he moved in and out, her head bobbed in a subtle nod.

“Say it.” He thrust hard.

She gasped. “Yes.”

A thrill of triumph buzzed through his whole body—then settled, tense and eager, in the base of his spine.

“Show me, love. Show me how bad you wanted it.”

She kissed him deeply, hungrily, catching his tongue and suckling it hard. As they kissed, she made soft, needy whimpers in the back of her throat.

“Take me,” she whispered. “Mark me as yours. I want everyone to see.”

Her words shredded his restraint, but he fought the urge to pump hard and fast, remaining faithful to the slow, steady grind that made her writhe and moan.