Unveiled (Turner #1)(69)
He tasted her there, and her hands squeezed his arms; there, and her hips thrust towards him. He circled his tongue, found the nub at the center of her pleasure, and she let out a helpless mewl.
“This is what I need. To understand the map of your body. To explore your every last secret.”
Biblically, the word for making love was to know. It had always seemed a hopelessly effete euphemism to Ash until now. Her taste on his lips was knowledge. He took her harder, pushing her, coaxing her with his tongue. The curve of her body around his, the tension in her muscles, the grip of her fingers—they were all knowledge, deeper and harder than anything he had ever understood before. Her body stiffened. He felt heat well up around her, felt the strength of her release against his lips.
And he knew her.
“Oh, God,” she said, her voice indistinct above him. “Oh, Ash. Ash. Ash.” Her hands clutched his shoulders, hard. He felt as if he were on a boat, rocked by an enormous swell of the ocean. He felt a little dazed. He could hear her breath, hard and thready.
He pushed himself up and leaned over her.
“Ash,” she said, looking into his eyes, “you are a magnificent creature.”
His blood rang in his ears. She sounded languid, satisfied, and he felt a fierce sense of possessive pride. “You should enjoy this,” he growled out, “this and many others like it. I’m not done.”
He spread her knees wider. He felt, rather than heard, her exhale as he placed the head of his penis against her opening. Hot. Liquid. Everything real and desirable. His hands shook where they clenched the coverlet, with the effort of his restraint. He could almost taste her surprised gasp as he rubbed the head in her juices. Her body welcomed his; he could feel it from head to toe, from the way her br**sts brushed against his chest to the small thrust of her hips. That tiny movement was enough to slip the very tip of him inside her.
God, it felt good when her flesh closed about him—better than anything he’d ever known. Fantastic. Excruciating.
He pulled back only to push forwards, farther. More. Better. She was tight around him, but not too tight. She opened her eyes and watched him, as if she were memorizing this moment. As if he might imprint on her bones.
And then she said the most ridiculous thing. “Don’t forget me, Ash. Not ever.” Her voice was a whisper against his skin.
He shut his eyes, letting the pure pleasure of their joining wash over him. “As if I could. You know I can’t. You know I won’t. You know me.”
She didn’t answer, not in words. But she drew him down.
He pushed all the way in, until he felt her pelvis against his, her legs coming to wrap around his. It was all he could do to hold back, to refrain from pounding the rising tide of want into her. She pulsed around him, quietly, rhythmically. He might have spent himself then.
He gritted his teeth and didn’t.
Instead, he began to stroke into her—slowly, gently, at first; then, as she met him, harder, faster, until he couldn’t tell where his pleasure left off and hers began. Until she gasped again, and he felt her clench about him, squeezing his c**k as she came.
Then he, too, was following her over the edge, the wild, ragged pleasure overtaking him entirely.
Afterwards, it was better than ever—fiercer and stronger and more tender. He had her beneath him, after all, to kiss, to lightly run his hands along her sides. He disengaged from her but pulled her close, holding her body against his, stroking her skin until his lids drooped, until his thoughts drifted from satisfaction into the near incoherence of sleep.
“Ash?” Her voice was a whisper. “Ash, we have to talk.”
“Very well,” he murmured on a yawn. “Talk.”
“You see, there’s something you need to know about me.”
“Hmm,” he said. Sleep beckoned. He could feel himself drifting away, finally sated, completely warm, his body tired from the night’s exertions.
“Ash?” She spoke from some warm cloud, somewhere very far away. “Ash, are you asleep?”
He wasn’t, not quite, but he wasn’t awake enough to respond. He was vaguely aware of her tapping his shoulder—once, twice—before sighing.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “It’s not as if I was eager to tell you anyway.”
The last thing he remembered was the feel of her relaxing against him in surrender.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MARGARET AWOKE THE next morning with a shiver running down her spine.
There was certainly no reason to feel cold. She was snuggled up against Ash, his body a warm, comforting mass against her side. If she could stay here in his arms forever, she would never feel cold again.
Last night had been a thing of magic, something that would transmute the memory of him into gold. After her unfortunate encounter with Frederick, she’d believed that intercourse with a man would be about his taking from her: taking his pleasure, taking her body. But when Ash had made love to her, he’d given: affection, certainty and, most of all, that quiet strength that made her feel she could accomplish anything.
She had only to tiptoe into his presence and he drew her into his spell.
But the morning light gave a cold, rational cast to the room about her. It was very much his bedchamber—from the ivory-handled razor tossed carelessly by the basin in the corner, to the sharp corners of the mahogany chest of drawers. No matter how she turned her head, the angles of the room seemed precise and masculine. Demanding, even, as if his chambers were requiring more of her than he had himself.