Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(86)

“I don’t care.”

“I found a letter in Father Porter’s office, and it said I was a good young man who had never put two fingers into a woman’s wet body like this. Or three.”

She choked a laugh, even as her eyes closed in pleasure. “What else did it say?”

“I’m a virginal, abstinent man,” Will said, rolling her onto her stomach and kneeling behind her. His hands pulled her hips up, and now he was positioned. The broad head she had personally selected was notching into place, and he was asking her, “Are you ready? Do you still want this?”

“Please,” she said facedown into their pillow. “I don’t want to be a virginal, abstinent woman. Give it to me.” He did, and oh, she felt every slow inch of this moment. There was no pain, no agonizing ripping of her body to shreds. Natural science; that was what this was.

No, even more: it was a trance.

They knew what to do. Angles, and speed, and resistance, and a touch of gravity; nothing required any thought. Will was both careful and powerful in his movements, drawing out, pushing back, causing her to gasp, groan, and tingle. He began to pull her back firmer and firmer onto him.

Just like pure gold, Angelika’s orgasm was unmistakable when she saw it start to glimmer on the near horizon. Will saw it, too, and folded his body down, caging her in with his arms. He bit down softly on her neck, then put a hand down to touch and help her. It was a claiming; a gentle, hard, rocking, thorough fucking, and just like the gold ring dazzled her eyes, her body tightened up, the enormity of the sensation feeling like panic and then—

Ecstasy, utter, decadent, blooming ecstasy, drawing cords through her limbs to pull and loosen, jerking and easing. He was in the exact same moment. They shivered and pressed and held still, his brow on her shoulder as he rocked in slowing spasms. The human body was capable of miracles, soaked in sweat and salt.

“I love you,” he told her. “I have, from the moment I first saw you.”

“I loved you before you took a breath.”

Laughing giddily at this absurd competition, they slumped and rolled into each other’s arms. “Are you all right?” He tipped her chin up with his thumb. “Was I too rough?” There was blood, but not much. “Mary would be furious to see this sheet.”

“She did warn you. I felt you being careful in every moment. I am fine. Better than fine. Why do novels always make virgins out to be fragile little things? I feel . . . powerful. Don’t you?”

“That’s good you feel that way,” he said. “Because I’m not done with you.”

Will, Arlo, her love, whoever he was, diligently began work on his goal of one hundred.

She had no idea where he got his unlimited energy from.





Chapter Thirty-One


Dear Father Porter,’” Angelika read aloud as she lay on her stomach naked.

Will was kissing down her spine. “Such erotic words.”

“We have been in bed all night, and a full day.”

“We have.”

“Well, I would have thought your inspiration would run dry hours ago.” The light was turning evening blue. “I need to get Adam’s dinner ready soon.” Her own stomach growled.

“Just read the letter before we return to real life.”

She began again. “‘I am writing to introduce myself. I am Father Arlo Northcott, and I am delighted to be selected as your replacement after your distinguished forty-two-year tenure as priest of the parish of Salisbury. Whilst I do not consider myself worthy of the appointment, given your reputation and service, I hereby conduct to do my very best—’”

“Apparently, my ink was not in short supply,” Will interrupted. He was kissing the small of her back. “You can skip the dull parts.”

Over her shoulder, she said with humor, “So can you.”

“I haven’t found any yet,” he said, and continued to prove he meant it. She didn’t know that her hips held such sensitivity, or that he liked them so much.

“It’s a well-written letter,” she defended, back to the task at hand. “And if it was indeed you who wrote it, I say well done. But I will skip over these sentences where you kiss Father Porter’s derriere.” As soon as she said it out loud, she realized what she’d invited. “Oh, no,” she giggled as the first kiss was pressed slowly onto her buttock.

He invited, “Please, keep reading.”

She tried to focus. “Here’s where it gets to a proper introduction. ‘Whilst I am only thirty-three, I believe I am fulfilling a calling to God that I first felt when I was six years old. I was fortunate that my dear parents saw my propensity for religious study alongside academics.’”

She had to stop to take some breaths.

The whisker-scratch kisses on her backside were unsettling, and delightful, and he knew it. “I knew you were a fine young lady who occasionally needs a little kiss on the backside to feel properly appreciated.” He moved lower.

“No, no, I’m ticklish there,” she begged, but his hands held her tight as he slid his mouth down the back of her thigh. “Oh, oh, stop!” Struggling was futile. He was very strong, but he always held her in careful ways.

He reached up to her buttock, squeezed it, then smacked it. “Keep. Reading.”