The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(65)

And she wanted it from him.

“Yes,” she said. And before the word gave way to silence, he was there, his fingers pressing, parting the folds where she wanted him most, exploring in delicious strokes and slides.

He groaned. “So wet,” he said in between kisses to the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Were you wet then?” he asked, wickedly. “In the hayloft?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“No?” he said, stilling, torturing her with the lack of his touch. Punishing her for her lie.

“Yes,” she said. “I was wet.”

He spread her wide and she closed her eyes at the touch—lewd and lascivious and lovely—at once thankful for the darkness and quite desperate for the light. “Did you touch yourself?”

She shook her head, her hands searching for him. Finding his soft hair. “No.” He stopped again and her fingers curled against him. “It’s true. I didn’t. But—”

He blew softly on the exposed center of her. “But?”

She inhaled, the breath ragged and not enough, and though it was he who knelt, it was she who confessed. “But I wanted to.”

He rewarded the honesty with his mouth, consuming her like fire, his tongue stroking in long, slow licks, curling in a slick promise at the hard center of her pleasure, and she lifted her hips to meet his remarkable mouth, not caring that the action could be called nothing but wanton. She did want.

She needed.

And he gave without purchase. The fingers of one hand holding her wide as those of the other explored, pressing deep, curling, finding a spot that made her writhe without care for anything but him and his wonderful touch. “King,” she whispered, and he lifted his mouth from her.

“Tell me what you like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He licked, long and slow and devastating. “You do, though.” He set his tongue to the hard bud at the top of her, working until she gasped his name again. “You like that.”

“I do,” she groaned. “More.”

He laughed, the sound like sin in the dark. Like the devil himself. “As you demand, my lady.” And he set his mouth to her again.

She soon became a master at telling him what she liked, even as she discovered it herself, using words she’d never thought she’d say—words that would ruin her in polite company forever.

But she did not care about polite company. She cared about his company, this glorious man who showed her more in the darkness than she had ever known in the light.

And as he did her bidding, his touch accompanied by a low, rumbling growl, she came closer and closer to the edge he had promised. Her sighs grew louder, and she cried out his name.

He stopped.

She sprang forward, sitting up straight in protest. “No!”

He pressed her back against the seat and whispered, “What did I say about you being quiet?” He lowered his head and kissed her gently, openmouthed, teasing. “You must be quiet, Sophie. We mustn’t be heard.”

The words had a wicked impact, sending desire flooding through her. He was asking the impossible. “Should we stop?” she asked, hating the question.

“Dear God. No. We shouldn’t stop.”

Sophie gave a little sigh of relief that became a gasp when he kissed her again. “I quite desperately want you to scream, Sophie,” he said between idle, unbearable licks. “I want to stop this carriage, lay you down beneath the stars, and make you scream again, and again, and again.”

She stifled a cry at the words and his touch, stiffening. Clenching her fingers in his hair. “Please, King.”

“Shhhh.” He spoke directly to the core of her, the rush of air making her wild. “Be careful.” And then his fingers moved again, joining in her torture, sliding deep, stroking and curling again and again. “He might hear us.”

The words did nothing but excite her further, and it grew worse as he teased and tempted with his fingers, reminding her to be quiet in that wicked voice, all enjoyment, as though he knew he was slowly destroying her, making her want him more than she’d ever wanted anything in her twenty-one years.

“He might hear us,” he repeated to the core of her, his warm breath making her ache as his fingers worked against her. “He might hear you, your little cries, the way you call my name, like sin and sex in the darkness.”

She wasn’t sin and sex, though. He was.

But when he set his mouth to her, she widened her thighs and lifted herself to him, proving him right. Biting back the cries that came again and again as he pressed more firmly, rubbed more deliberately, giving her everything she desired.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, King. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t, not even as the tension built with no purchase, with no release, when she fell into the darkness, victim to his tongue and lips and touch, taking everything he offered without hesitation.

She rocked against him as the carriage rocked beneath them. And then the tension released, in glorious, wicked sensation, and she forgot everything but him, his dark growls and his strong grip and his wonderful mouth.

When the pleasure crested, breaking over her, breaking her, it was King who held her together, letting her explore all the corners of pleasure without hesitation. Without embarrassment. Without shame.