Beard Necessities: Winston Brothers Book #7

by Penny Reid

  She stared at the blanket for a few seconds, and then lifted her gaze to mine, one side of her mouth curving upward. “I guess they really want to go swimming.”

  Studying her closely, trying to parse whether she was pleased or uncomfortable, I asked, “Do you want to go swimming? I’ll help you carry everything back.”

  She tilted her head, now studying me. “Do you want to go swimming?”

  “No,” I answered immediately.

  “Good,” she said quietly, and her small smile became a grin. But her eyes grew hazier the longer she looked at me, like she was lost within her thoughts. Meanwhile, I looked at her, taking note of how her legs bent and curled up, the hem of her dress rested benignly at mid-thigh, and her feet were once again bare.

  My thoughts turned before I could rein them in and I pictured my hands on her skin, sliding the hem higher over her hips as she reclined, kissing my way up the inside of her thigh, and pulling aside that scrap of fabric between her legs to place a tonguing kiss on her—

  “Strawberries,” she said, yanking me from my wayward imagination.

  “Pardon?” My attention refocused outward.

  “If you’re hungry, I got something for you to eat.”

  “What was that?” I croaked, wondering if I’d been speaking my wishes out loud.

  She held up the plate again. “I was too ambitious when I served myself and there’s no way I can finish all these. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

  I swallowed the saliva that had rushed to my mouth during my sinful fantasy and tore my stare from hers, a chaos to which I was no longer accustomed made concentrating difficult. What was I supposed to do? What had Jethro said?

  Sit down, a voice reminded me. I nodded, agreeing, and then moved to sit. Not there! Next to her.

  “That’s right,” I mumbled, rubbing my forehead. Picking my way through the abandoned picnic items, I took a seat in the vacant circle of blanket adjacent to hers.

  She leaned to one side as I sat, to give me room, but didn’t skootch away, instead turning toward me, her arm brushing along mine as she placed the plate on her lap and picked up a strawberry. I’d barely settled, my legs stretched out in front of me and crossed at the ankle, when she lifted the berry in front of my chin, her eyes on my mouth.

  “Here. They’re warm from the sun.” She smiled softly, bright eyes reflecting the blue of the sky, warm golden freckles seasoning pale skin, the sunlight shimmering in her copper hair. Gorgeous.

  Watching her watch my mouth, I parted my lips and she gave me the nub of fruit, her lips also parting, her tongue peeking out as I bracketed the berry with my teeth, holding it in place but not biting. She seemed mesmerized, in a daze, her gaze unmistakably hot, intent, like me eating a strawberry was the most fascinating thing in the entire world.

  Pressing my tongue against the fruit, I bit. She blinked. I licked my lips of the excess juice as her fingers moved away, slowly depositing the leafy remainder on her plate, her gaze still fastened to my mouth, and her hand falling like a feather until it landed on my leg. Just above my knee.

  The weight of her hot palm was impossible to ignore. Nothing about this touch felt light. I hoped Jethro and Beau were right. I hoped her touching me like this meant she wanted me to touch her because my hands were already moving. Our surroundings, as beautiful as they were, faded away and I saw only her. Her breathing had changed and the haziness in her eyes grew restless, pointed, lifting to mine as my fingertips connected with her bare thigh, less than an inch below the lacy, pink hemline.

  Maybe it was madness, but I surrendered.

  I was going to lift her dress just as I’d imagined moments ago. The need to act burned within me, the flames fanned by the small, eager puffs of air with every rise and fall of her chest.

  I’d barely spoken to her since being locked in that room. But in this moment, I couldn’t see past the desperation in her—unquestionably mirrored in me—to do something. Anything. Close the gulf between us with actions in much the same way we’d closed it last week with words.

  However, even as frantic as I felt, to lay her back and touch her soft skin, lick and taste and suck on her sweet flesh, and make all these wishes come true, I needed her to say it. I would never, could never assume.

  “Scarlet, do you want—”

  “Yes,” she said, looking and sounding like she was in pain. “For God’s sake, yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  As though she couldn’t wait another second, she grabbed the front of my shirt, yanked me forward, and kissed me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  *Claire*

  “There is no fulfillment that is not made sweeter for the prolonging of desire”

  Jacqueline Carey, Kushiel's Dart

  He kissed me back. No hesitation. Just like that, like he was ready, like he’d known it was going to happen. Like he’d planned it. My back hit the blanket, my fumbling fingers in his hair, and his hot mouth consumed mine as he climbed over me, his tongue sweeping inside, demolishing, taking.

  These weren’t the sweet, searching kisses from our past. This was a monster, a beast fed by years of need and frustration and raw desperation. Now my hands were under his shirt, touching the hard ridges of his stomach, the smooth skin of his shoulders, and the coarse hair of his chest.

  Something broke.

  I mean, inside me something broke. Just clear broke. Like a glass full of water hitting a tile floor at full speed. I wasn’t thinking. There was no thinking. There was no thought. There was only his greedy mouth on my neck, his fingers tearing at the ties of my dress, his hands on my body, hiking up my skirt, cupping me through my panties. And then he moved my underwear and his fingers were inside.

  I heard my breath hitch and I felt my hips push forward.

  I felt frantic. So frantic. He parted me, the soft pad of his middle finger circling, and I whimpered. He made me feel so much, he always had, feelings that were both necessary and dangerous in equal measure. It didn’t feel safe, what we were doing. The sensations and heat and mindlessness were the opposite of safe. I was in peril. I was lost. And I didn’t care. I didn’t fucking care.

  “Scarlet. Touch me. You feel perfect.”

  He needn’t have told me. My hands were already moving, my fingertips and nails scraping against his glorious torso on their way inside his shorts. And then my fingers were around him and he felt like heaven and sin and solid rock, and I swear I almost came. Low in my belly my body clenched, tightened, begged me to please, oh please, end this suffering. I suffered. It hurt.

  I stroked the thick, hot length of him and he stilled, then quaked, his big body shuddering. “Wait, wait. I have no condom.”

  “I don’t care.” I did not care.

  Actually, part of me did care—the irrational, hysterical, wackadoodle part. The part that wanted to issue an impregnation invitation. Please. Impregnate me. Let’s make some babies! NOW!

  I wanted him, needed him inside me and my hands on him and his mouth on my breast more than I’d wanted or needed anything. More than I wanted to be safe, or well, or good. I couldn’t think about those things. They didn’t matter. Only this mattered.

  But Billy moved to the side, pressing his erection against my hip such that I couldn’t touch him how I wanted.

  “Please, Billy. Please.”

  “Shhh.” His lips were at my neck, under my ear, moving lower as his fingers toyed with my body and I clawed at him, trying to reach what he withheld. But then he pressed his pelvis forward and the brutal, hard feel of him made me wild.

  I pushed his chest and he reared back, his eyes wide, alert. “Did I—are you okay?”

  Growling, I pushed and pushed and pushed until he lay on his back. I straddled his lap and I rocked, pivoting, rubbing, three layers of clothes between us and yet my body didn’t seem to care.

  “Scarlet, Scarlet—fuuuuuck.” The expletive tore from him, the crown of his head pressing against the blanket, his eyes rolling back, his fingers digging into my thighs be
neath my skirt as I chased friction, using his rigid heat.

  “Oh God,” I moaned, the first of the splintering shards speared me, my movements turned covetous and graceless.

  Our eyes locked.

  His were wild, dazed, gorgeous blue fire, and his big, rough hands grabbed the straps of my dress and bra and yanked them down. I heard the sound of ripping fabric as he tore the front of my dress open. I didn’t care. Eyes on my naked breasts, Billy surged forward, his arms coming around my body holding me captive. His mouth feasted, biting and tonguing, his fingers pinching and cupping and feeling.

  His hips thrust upward, using me to pursue his own pleasure. The vision of his coarseness and grasping—being the instrument of this beautiful, stoic man’s complete loss of control—had me crying out, the urge to stop and tense and bow forward a powerful one because I was coming. But I pushed my body to keep moving, chasing the friction and heat, to draw it out and rock and thrust even as he tensed, and he bowed, and he shuddered, surrendering himself.

  And I came. So. Damn. Hard.

  And then, I came down. Barely able to catch my breath, I couldn’t hold myself upright. But that didn’t matter. Billy was there, holding me, moving me to the blanket beside him. His lips still kissing, but sweetly. Softly. One arm beneath my shoulders, tucking me into the wall of his form, he continued his exploration. His calloused palm cupping and massaging my breast, and then sliding lower, over the bunched skirt of my dress and into the waist of my underwear.

  My heart pounding between my ears, I watched him. I watched as his long, tan fingers disappeared into my panties, petting the curls before I felt him separate me, picking up where he’d left off earlier. With my underwear on, it felt like a thrilling secret, his hand moving beneath the fabric where I couldn’t see. My hips shifted uncontrollably, slanting upward, wanting the invasion he was withholding.

  “Billy,” I choked, the word more air than sound. I felt lost, so lost, hungry, starving. I didn’t know what was happening, how I could still feel this way after already climaxing. All my experience reaching satisfaction had been solo, and I’d never felt the urge to chase one orgasm with another.

  His mouth trailed cherishing nibbles along my shoulder to my collarbone, the coarse hair of his beard delicious texture along my skin. Licking and tasting, a sound rumbled from his chest, one of primitive delight as his middle and index finger teased my entrance and he nuzzled the stiff peak at the center of my breast.

  And then his body moved, the arm around my shoulders leaving me. His mouth was at my belly button and his fingers were pulling my underwear down my legs, and I wanted it even though this was a first for me and my heart was racing.

  I wanted him to climb between my legs and kiss the inside of my thigh as I squirmed and panted. I wanted him to spread me with his thumbs and breathe on me, holding my eyes as he licked his lips. I wanted him to cover my aching center with his hot tongue and mouth and watch me as I completely unraveled until I couldn’t. I could no longer watch him as he watched me. Seeing myself reflected, the deep, insatiable hunger in his gaze a mirror of mine.

  It was too much. Too much. I pressed the base of my palms into my closed eyes and heard myself whimper against the soundtrack of Billy devouring my body with tongue and teeth and lips, finally, finally invading me with his fingers.

  “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I chanted, certain I was being torn in two with the enormity and necessity of this pleasure.

  Once again, I came, but this time I couldn’t control the instinct to arch and bow, tense. My legs attempted to clamp shut around his head as uncontainable, needful sounds of nonsense slipped past my lips. He pressed a palm to my stomach, maybe to hold me still, maybe to keep me from giving him a black eye with my knee.

  The crisis receded slower this time, a roaring sea subdued over time to gently, lapping waves. As my legs relaxed, he lifted his head, kissing the interior of my thigh, stealing a quick bite of the tender flesh before rising over me and gathering me to his body.

  I curled into him, into his heat, my hands pushing under his shirt and searching for his skin. He allowed it, helping me by lifting to one elbow so I could remove the offensive garment. Reclining once more in his arms, my cheek against his wall of a chest, I inhaled deeply, fighting the sudden urge to cry as I exhaled.

  How much had I wanted this? And for how long? This closeness, intimacy with him. I felt like I was in a beautiful dream, and the terror of potentially waking slowly crept in.

  “You’re a lot stronger than you look,” he said, surprising me by being the first one to break the silence with his rumbly voice.

  I had to take a moment to think about his words, like my language center hadn’t yet switched back on. When I finally comprehended, I lifted my head and peered at him.

  “I am?”

  “You are.” A soft smile, one I didn’t immediately recognize, brightened his eyes and gave his lips the faintest curve.

  “How so?”

  “I thought you were going to break my jaw with your thighs.”

  His mouth twitched and all at once I remembered where I’d seen this barely-there smile, this affectionate glimmer behind his gaze. This is what Billy Winston looked like when he was happy. My heart gave a tug, then a lurch as I devoured this vision of him, greedy for it, wanting to tuck it away for later when I could savor the sight and the memory.

  But then, his eyebrows pulled together, the smile waning. “Are you—”

  “I’m great,” I said, my eyes and nose stinging, and I couldn’t remember ever speaking words that were more true.

  He examined me and I could see he didn’t know whether I was telling the truth, so I climbed on top of him, grabbed his face, and kissed his magnificent lips over and over, separating several times just long enough to say things like, “I’m so great,” and, “Never been better,” and then I kissed him again.

  Billy held me at my waist as I peppered his face with kisses, but then his hands lowered to my bottom, squeezed, and he groaned. Returning me to the blanket, he lifted to his elbow, lying halfway on his side, and continued to massage my backside.

  “I have so many things to tell you about your body,” he whispered darkly against my ear, making me shiver.

  “You’re going to tell me about my own body?” I tried to force some contempt into my voice, but this was likely undone by how my hands moved over his body, delighting in every square inch of his physical perfection.

  “Yes.” He kissed my neck, his palm sliding to my breast. “Your body has been on my mind for a very, very long time. I want to tell you everything.”

  His beard and words tickled and I reflexively bent my chin to my chest, laughing lightly.

  “That tickles,” he said, like he was cataloging information of great importance.

  “Yes. That tickles,” I said, abruptly getting a good look at myself and my ruined dress and my bare chest and—

  Yikes! Lord only knows where my underwear is. That thought cut through the fog of extraordinary lust, and I laughed again.

  But this time with joy and wonder.

  Neither of us could find my underwear.

  This fact had been a little embarrassing at first. I tried to clutch my dress to my breasts and cover my back while also holding the skirt in place.

  I was unprepared. I was mentally unprepared to be a confident sex kitten post-Billy-Winston-induced-dual-orgasm administration. Plus, there was the not-so-small matter of my scars—all over my back and sides, from my shoulder blades down—and those weren’t sexy at all.

  But then Billy—handing me his shirt to slip on over my torn dress—offered to remove his underwear too.

  “You can’t be serious.” Now I clutched his shirt to my chest, effectively hiding my front.

  “I’m always serious.” His thumbs hooked in his shorts, presumably prepared to pull them down along with his briefs.

  My thoughts scattered because his voice plus the look in his eyes told me he was serious. “So, what? We’re
just gunna get naked? In a barley field? In Tuscany?”

  He shrugged, looking at me like I was cute and silly and he wanted to gobble me up, moving the waist of his shorts two inches downward, exposing more of that delicious V thing bracketing his hips and a dark patch of hair just above his—

  “Wait!” I gasped. And then I buried my face in his shirt.

  “Too late,” he said.

  And I felt a pulse of heat, like a BOOM, rock my body, everything coiling and then relaxing and then coiling again. “You—you’re naked?!”

  Sneak a peek, Scarlet. What could it hurt? After what y’all just did, don’t be a dummy.

  We were in the throes of passion! This is totally different.

  What about what happened at the pool yesterday? You basically shoved his hand in your bikini bottoms, and now you’re embarrassed?

  He’d been all wet. A wet Billy Winston is a lethal dose of aphrodisiac on steroids and meth. Plus, that was embarrassing afterward too.

  He’s already seen you naked.

  I gulped, realizing all at once that he had seen me naked. Or, mostly naked. And he’d already seen most of the scars once upon a time.

  “Yes. I’m naked,” he confirmed calmly, and then added, “For the time being.”

  “What does that mean?!” I groaned, indecision a climbing musical scale between my ears.

  “Well—” I heard movement and I almost peeked. Almost. “It means, when you were on top, I came mostly on my stomach, but also a little in my briefs. Now they’re cold and sticky, but my shorts seem to be mostly fine.”

  I gasped again, another BOOM, but then I felt even more like a ninny. If I’d taken a moment to think about things, I would’ve realized that’s what happened. While I was busy getting my jollies during the crazed straddling and grinding session, he’d also climaxed. Which also explained why my dress was damp in the front.

  I felt selfish. I should’ve offered to go down on him too. I should’ve—