“It’s not enough,” he growled.
She shook her head. “I want more.”
“I want it all,” he said, and the words came like a confession, as though he shouldn’t.
She met his eyes, recognizing the understanding flashing in them. Understanding and something else. Something like hunger. One that matched her own. “Take it.” After a long moment studying her, Max released her, and Lilah swayed with the loss of his touch.
And then his hands were on the hem of her sweater, clutching the fabric and pulling it over her head, and Lilah had never been more grateful for putting on a decent bra. He exhaled, reaching for her, one fingertip tracing the scalloped edge of the delicate red lace. “Red.” He smiled. “Like your shoes.”
“I like red,” she said, her breath hitching as that wicked finger found the peak of one hard nipple, swirling over the lace, making her want to scream.
“Take it off,” he said, the command like a shot in the room.
She didn’t hesitate, reaching behind her to unclasp the bra before she looked up at him and said, “You take it off.”
His gaze flew to hers and his hand fisted around the fabric, pulling it down, baring her to him. He stilled for a moment, watching. Riveted, and her nipples went impossibly hard under his scrutiny. “Look at you.” He lifted a hand to his lips, rubbing his gorgeous mouth as though he was starving and she was a meal. And then his gaze came to hers. “You’re beautiful.”
She blushed.
“Shall I tell you more?”
Yes. Yes yes.
“You are.” He was reaching for her again, that finger returning, circling until she thought she might lose her mind if he didn’t— “Does it ache here?”
She looked to him, full of need, and told him the truth. “So much.”
“Mmm.” That sound again. Pleasure. Hunger. And then he took the tip of her breast into his mouth, working her gently until she sighed and her fingers came to his head, holding him there even as she wanted to beg him to move, to do more.
“God, Max, yes.”
Another low growl and he released her. “Do you like that?”
“I can’t remember,” she replied. “Do it again.”
He laughed against her skin as he moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, long, slick, rhythmic sucks that opened a line of pleasure straight to her core, as though he was already inside her.
And then, like he knew what she wanted, he lifted his head and stole her lips in an equally delicious kiss, walking her back until her knees hit the bed and she sat, Max lowering himself with her, but not to the bed.
To the floor.
To his knees.
Between hers.
Anticipation flooded her as his hands found the waistband of her leggings and pulled, taking her underwear with them over her hips and thighs, down her legs, until she was completely bare.
Lilah was suddenly very aware of being naked in that room, in the glow of the porcelain bedside lamp, while this man—big and strong and beautiful in his own right—studied her.
And he did study her—his whiskey gaze tracking over her skin, devouring her, making her ache.
Instinctively she moved to cover herself, but Max was having none of that. “No,” he rumbled. “I want to look.”
Before she could reply, he touched her again, his strong hands stroking up her legs, searching for and finding all the places that made her shiver. Her ankles. The backs of her knees. The soft swell of her belly, the undersides of her breasts.
He kissed her at the base of her neck, his tongue making a little circle until she sucked in a breath and he laughed again, low and sexy as hell.
Those hands disappeared, back to her knees, easing her thighs open. “I want to look,” he whispered, the heat of his breath against her skin like a promise. “Will you let me?”
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“Mmm.” He sat back on his heels, his hands sliding along the soft skin of her thighs, pressing her open, wide.
And then his eyes were on her, and she couldn’t stop herself from watching him. God, he looked like he was about to devour her. And she wanted it. Badly.
She moved, flexing her hips beneath his gaze, setting off a low rumble in his chest. His hands stroked again, down to her knees and back up over soft skin, until they found the tight curls at her core, brushing over them once, twice, until she rocked against him again. “Max.”
“You like that?”
“No,” she said. “Stop teasing me.”
He parted her folds, gently. “Christ, you’re wet. That’s for me, isn’t it?”
She lifted her hips toward him, the movement rewarded by one of his long fingers stroking, just barely—just enough to make her hiss her frustration at the barely there pleasure. “Max,” she said again.
The bastard laughed. “That?”
“More.”
The word came out harsh and directive, and Max’s gaze shot up to hers. “Now that . . . that I like.”
And he gave her what she wanted, that finger stroking over her slit, up and down over her straining, aching flesh, back and forth, never quite getting to where she wanted him most.
She grabbed his wrist. “Now.”
The word was barely out of her mouth and he was there, his finger on her tight, aching clit, circling, pressing, stroking, until he found the rhythm that threatened to break her apart.
She rocked against him, and her eyes found his as he worked her, over and over. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “I’m going to watch you come again and again, all night long.”
Whatever he wanted. She’d give it to him. “Yes.”
“But first . . . ”
His touch was gone in an instant and Lilah cried out, the sound garbled and frustrated, even as he was pressing her thighs wide and lowering himself between them.
“Shh, love,” he whispered. “I know.”
“Max . . . ” His name came out on a cry.
“I know, love. But you see, I changed my mind,” he said to her core, the words soft temptation against her as he tucked his shoulders, wide and perfect, between her thighs, holding her open for him. “It turns out I do want something to eat.”
Her laugh immediately became a groan as he set his mouth to her, his tongue tracing the path his finger had blazed earlier along her soft heat, savoring the taste of her as he licked and kissed in long, lingering strokes, as though they did not have one night . . . as though they had forever.
And Lilah, unable to do anything else, gave herself up to the twin pleasures of feeling . . . and watching. Because Max watched her the whole time, his eyes on hers, hot and dark and full of need, reading her pleasure as he manipulated it. As he controlled it.
Her fingers found his hair again, clenching there, holding him to her. “Yes,” she whispered as she rolled her hips against his magnificent mouth, in time with his steady, languid licks. “God, please.”
She watched his eyes light with a wicked gleam as he growled against her and gave her what she wanted, finding her clit, swirling his tongue around it and flicking over it, slow and delicious, until she couldn’t watch anymore, her eyes sliding closed as she lay back on the bed and gave herself up to this magnificent man.
One of his hands came to the swell of her stomach, warm and enormous over her, pinning her to the bed as he continued to fuck her with his mouth, flattening his tongue against her and working it against her, again and again.
She fisted his hair and rocked against him. “God, yes, don’t stop,” she whispered, and he didn’t, this gorgeous man, instead pushing one thick finger of his free hand into her, pressing deep, searching, fucking her, and he didn’t stop.
He didn’t.
He worked her and he played with her and he fucked her with his hands and his mouth and his eyes, still watching when she flew apart, coming up off the bed, her own eyes opening, instantly finding him as she came, and came, and came, his name on her lips, laying waste to her
thoughts.
And he stayed there as she came down from her pleasure, his fingers stilling, his tongue gentling, stroking in long, slow licks that sent delicious tremors of pleasure through her until she found the strength to release the hold she had on his hair and fall back against the bed, sated and thoroughly pleasured.
No. Not thoroughly. There was another thread of need there.
Need to be closer to him.
Need to be with him.
She sat up and he was there, meeting her kiss as she came for him, consuming her with lips and teeth and tongue so she could taste herself on him. In him. With him. And that taste, that moment, that kiss—
“You are wearing too many clothes,” she whispered, reaching for the hem of his sweater, yanking it up over his head and sending it flying across the room, instantly forgotten.
Her eyes went wide as she took him in, broad and muscled with years of working in the fields, the opposite of every man she’d ever been with before. Those men had all been lean and lanky. But Max . . . well.
Name was destiny.
Her hands stroked over his wide shoulders, his broad chest, down the ridged muscles of his abdomen to the waistband of his jeans. She stilled, her eyes on his. “Do you mind if—”
One side of his mouth kicked up in the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. “I do not.”
Her fingers were on the fastenings of his jeans then, tearing open the button and lowering the zipper, her curiosity taking over as she reached inside the shadowy opening and found him, hot and heavy and huge.
Her eyes went wide. “Max,” she said softly, nibbling at his earlobe when he grunted his reply. “Turns out you do have a broadsword.”
He stilled, a little exhale the only indication that he’d registered the words before he ran his hand through his hair, over the back of his head, and looked away, sheepish. “Sorry.”
She couldn’t help her laugh. “That’s the most English thing I’ve ever heard.”
His gaze shot back to hers. “What?”
“Apologizing for your penis size.” She stroked it, measuring its length and girth beneath soft fabric. “Listen to me, Max. You have nothing to apologize for.”
He growled, low and dark, in reply, and that hand that had been the hallmark of his chagrin reached for her, cupping her chin. When he kissed her, it wasn’t apology. It was claiming.
And she loved it.
Without breaking the kiss, he removed his clothes. She scooted back onto the bed as he joined her, eager to feel him bare in her hand. She pushed him to his back and came up to straddle his thighs. “Let me see.”
The gorgeous man did, putting his hands behind his head and watching her as she explored him, straight and thick and beautiful. She couldn’t stop herself from stroking him in a long, slow slide, crown to base. Again. And again, this time marveling as a drop of liquid revealed itself as his foreskin slid back. She rubbed it into his skin with her thumb, and he swore softly.
Her gaze flew to his at the sound. “You are so beautiful,” she whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the sensitive head, to taste him, earthy and salty and perfect, and he cursed, one hand coming to her hair, stroking her curls.
“Lilah,” he growled. “Not like this.”
She lingered there. “Just a taste, Max. Just one . . . please.”
“Christ.” His hips rocked into her grip.
“Just once,” she promised to the velvet tip of him. “Just once, and then I want you to fuck me.” She sucked him down as he groaned her name, loving the feel of his cock, thick and heavy on her tongue, and the sound of his filthy mouth thick and heavy in the room around them. And then he was pulling her up off him and rolling her to the bed, and she was squealing her displeasure. “Not fair!”
“What’s not fair is that you are a witch.”
She smiled, feeling powerful enough for it to be true, and spread her thighs, cradling him between them, his heavy, hot shaft against her. “Shall we try for real magic?”
“Mmm,” he said, stealing another kiss, quick and dirty, before saying, “Don’t go anywhere.”
He was gone to his wallet just long enough to fetch a foil packet and return, climbing up her body again, placing long, lingering kisses along the way, until she was writhing beneath him, wet and ready.
The broad head of his cock was at her entrance, and Max pressed into her, slowly, aware of his size and clearly wanting to give her time to adjust. Lilah strained for more and he held back, sinking into her by impossible measures, each time pulling out slowly, until only the head of him stayed with her. Until they were both breathing ragged, devastated breaths.
And only when she was wild with need for him did he give her what she begged for. He began to thrust, slow and—yes, so easy—so smooth and even and perfect, like they’d been doing it for a lifetime and not just one night. “Oh, God,” she said, her arms around him as she tilted her hips up to his. “Yes.”
“There.”
“More.”
“Please.”
“Max.”
And then he was fucking her, hard and smooth and unleashed, and he was whispering the filthiest things in her ear, rough and beautiful, and she was doing as he asked, sliding her hand between them to rub her hard, straining clit again, and he was lifting himself up, giving her more room, and thrusting deep and fast and she’d been right.
It was so easy. Like home.
It would have scared her if she’d let it, but she didn’t have time to think about it, because electric pleasure was coursing through her and she was coming hard around him, harder than she could ever remember coming, milking his own release from him and reveling in the harsh shout of her name on his lips as he came in long, heavy thrusts that sent ripples of pleasure through her.
He was glorious.
It was glorious.
When they’d recovered, Max collapsed onto his back, pulling her over him, pressing a kiss to her temple and tucking her into one of his big, warm arms, as though she belonged there.
And the strangest thing was that she felt like she belonged there.
He rumbled again, that rolling “Mmm” pure satisfaction beneath her ear, and the sound sent a little thrill through her even as it settled her, heart pounding, into something else entirely.
Something like happiness.
She’d think about that in the morning.
But first . . . sleep.
6
Lilah woke to sunshine and the smell of coffee, both of which were unexpected, as she was usually up before the sun, and it had been a long time since she’d had someone to make coffee for her. Equally unexpected: waking in sheets that smelled like autumn leaves and sex.
Max.
He’d stayed.
She’d woken twice during the night, the first time to his lips on her skin, pressing warm, soft kisses over her shoulder and neck until she’d rolled to her back and directed his touch to where she wanted him. He’d made her come twice before she slipped back to sleep.
The second time, it had been nearly dawn, the sky outside that perfect charcoal that came just before light. Max had been asleep, and it was Lilah’s turn to wake him with lips and hands, to follow his wicked, wonderful instructions until they were both sated.
This time, it was morning, and he could have left.
But he’d stayed.
She should have been unnerved by the realization, but she wasn’t. In fact, as she stretched in the beam of warm sunlight and catalogued the lingering effects of the night before—a tight muscle here, a delicious twinge there—she was filled with an undeniable thrill.
Minutes later, having pulled on a pair of soft yoga pants, a tank top and a cardigan, brushed her teeth, and ensured she looked properly, artfully mussed, she made her way down the ancient creaky staircase to the kitchen of the cottage. Hesitating in the doorway, she watched him, tall and broad and freshly washed. Wearing different clothes than the night before.
He hadn’t just stayed. He’d left . . . and
returned.
He stood at the scarred wooden counter next to the stove, chopping something that he had to have found wherever he’d found his new clothes, because last she’d checked, the cottage refrigerator contained a bottle of rosé, a carton of milk, half a wedge of Stilton, three Cornish pasties and an apple—none of which was producing that delicious smell.
“I’ve heard about these English fairies,” she said, moving into the room. “Bringing clean clothes and eggs”—she peeked around him—“and thyme?”
“I had to feed Atlas,” he said, setting the knife down and looking to her. “I thought you might be hungry. I kept you up late.”
And like that, the air in the room shifted, the memories of the night before between them, full of pleasure. “I am hungry,” she said, not meaning for it to come out quite so soft. Quite so wanting.
But it did, and his gaze heated, and she wondered what he’d do if she suggested they table breakfast and head back up for round four.
“Lilah Rose,” he said, the words a delicious rumble. “I have plans for this morning and if you keep looking at me like that, you’re going to ruin them.”
She inhaled at the words—direct and perfect, like this was normal, every-day-after-ordinary-sex breakfast and not extremely not normal, morning-after-excellent-first-time-sex breakfast—and smiled, coming closer. “Would we say ruin?”
He reached for her then, one big hand grabbing the waistband of her tank top, fisting the fabric and pulling her close for a kiss that should have been a normal daytime kiss and was instead extremely not normal and incredibly sexy, his tongue stroking deep, sliding against hers until she sighed and went loose in his arms. Only once she clung to him did he release her. “Pour yourself a coffee and wait for breakfast like a good girl.”
Unf.
She did as she was told, telling herself that responding so thoroughly to being called good girl was offset by the fact that she was absolutely going to sexually objectify this wildly handsome man while he cooked her breakfast.
Tucking one leg beneath her, she sat down on the wide bench on the far side of the large oak table where she’d set up shop with her laptop and equipment earlier in the week, and watched him work, moving two saucepans around the ancient Aga and navigating the kitchen with ease, finding everything he needed without pause.
A Duke Worth Falling For Page 5