A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 52

“Please . . .” She trailed off.
He lifted his head. “Please, who?”
“Please, Bourne.” And he wanted to reward her for saying his name—his and no one else’s. He leaned down, suckling her gently as her finger moved to her other breast and she exhaled on a long, shuddering, “Yes . . .”
His hand stroked over her stomach, lower, lower still before he removed it and nipped at the soft skin on the underside of her breast. “Don’t stop now, darling.”
She didn’t, her finger wandering over the soft skin of her rounded stomach, into the curls that hid that magnificent place between her thighs. He watched, encouraging her with whispered guidance as she explored for herself, as she tested her own knowledge, her own skill, until he thought he might die if he was not inside her.
He pressed a long, lingering kiss on the swell of her belly, then on her extended wrist, the hitch in her breath at the touch a reward in itself. He whispered his question to her skin. “What do you feel here?” One finger slid over the back of her hand, lingered at her knuckles. When she did not reply, he looked up to meet her gaze, reading the embarrassment there.
She shook her head, her words barely audible. “I can’t.”
He met her fingers in silken heat, and said, “I can.” He pressed one finger into her, curling deep, and she gasped at the sensation. “You’re wet, darling . . . wet and ready for me. For me. No one else.”
“Michael,” she whispered his given name, and the pleasure of the simple moment was nearly unbearable. With a shy, uncertain smile, she spread her thighs and welcomed him with such trust that he could hardly bear it. He moved against her, the smooth head of him cradled against the velvet opening of her body and hovering there, resting his weight on his arms, looking down at her face, a mix of relaxation and pleasure and bewilderment, and he could not stop himself from kissing her, his tongue stroking slickly against hers, before pulling back. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, pausing there on the precipice of what he knew would be a remarkable moment . . . easing against her gently, just barely pushing inside before pulling out.
He thought he might die from the pleasure of it.
Her eyes eased shut, and he whispered, “Open your eyes. Watch me. I want you to see me.” When she did as she was told, he rocked into her smoothly, as gently as possible. She sucked in a short breath, pain flooding her gaze. He stopped, not wanting to hurt her. He leaned down, kissed her once—deeply—to regain her attention. “Are you all right?”
She smiled, and he recognized the strain there. “I am fine!”
He shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his voice. “Liar.” He reached down to where she was so small and tight—marvelously tight—around the thickness of him. He found the hard, straining nub at the core of her and rubbed a slow circle there, watching as her eyes narrowed with pleasure. He continued the movement as he slid into her, slow and deep until she held all of him.
He stilled, aching to move against her. “Now?” She took a deep breath, and he sank deeper, surprising them both. He put his forehead to hers. “Tell me it’s all right. Tell me I can move.”
His innocent little wife slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and whispered, “Please, Michael.”
And he could not resist the little plea. He took her lips with a wicked kiss, a growl rolling deep as he moved carefully, slowly pulling out until he was nearly gone from her, then rocking back into her gently, over and over, his thumb working against her, ensuring her pleasure even as he wondered if he would be able to hold his at bay.
“Michael,” she whispered, and he met her gaze, worried that he might be hurting her. He stilled.
She arched her back. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop moving. You were right . . .” Her eyes drifted closed, and she gave a moan of pleasure as he sank into her with one long stroke. He thought he might lose control at the sound of that moan, low and beautiful, at the back of her throat, but he did not stop.
She shook her head, her hands running over his shoulders and down his back, finally coming to rest on his bu**ocks, clasping in time to his movements, to the stroke of his thumb. “Michael!”
It was happening to him, too.
He’d never given much thought to timing his release to his partner’s. He’d never cared to share the experience. But, suddenly, he could think of nothing but meeting Penelope there, on the edge of her pleasure, and letting it crash over both of them. “Wait for me,” he whispered at her ear, thrusting against her. “Don’t go without me.”
“I can’t wait. I can’t stop it!” She convulsed around him, milking him in a rapid, stunning rhythm, his name on her lips sending him into oblivion, tumbling over the edge in a terrifying, extravagant climax that rivaled anything he’d ever experienced.
He collapsed against her, his breath coming in great, heaving bursts as he buried his face in the angle of her neck and allowed the extraordinary pleasure to wash over him in waves unlike anything he’d ever felt before.
Long minutes passed before, afraid that he would crush her with his weight, Bourne rolled away from Penelope, ran one hand down her side, and pulled her against him, not yet ready to release her.
Dear God. It had been the most incredible sex he’d ever had.
It had been mind-altering.
It had been more than he’d ever imagined it could be.
And the very idea that such an experience had come with Penelope spread cold fear through him.
This woman. This marriage. This evening.