The Defiant Wife (The Three Mrs #2) - Jess Michaels Page 0,53

her mouth, as deep as she could without gagging, and swirled her tongue around his length. She knew she affected him when he moaned against her, sending vibrations through her sex that made her twitch. Still, she maintained focus as she withdrew almost entirely and stroked her hand down his length, spreading wetness to his base.

She repeated the action, taking him deep, stroking him nearly from her lips. She swirled her tongue, she sucked. She did every single thing that brought him pleasure, and she felt him quicken beneath her as a result. Of course, he kept tormenting too. The focus of his tongue became her clitoris, and it really wasn’t fair because she had already come once. She was sensitive and ready, more than he was.

She might have argued that point if her mouth weren’t full. So on they went, trying to find the pleasure point that would win the day, trying to force the other’s hand. She felt the pleasure building in her. She tried so hard not to surrender to it, not when his legs had begun to shake and she knew he was close.

But in the end, there was nothing to be done. She came, slamming against his mouth as she threw back her head and called out his name in the quiet. He caught her hips, forcing her to grind against his face, to take more pleasure than she thought was possible, and just as the wave of sensation subsided a fraction, he shifted her off him, moved behind her and speared her with his cock in one, long thrust.

She gripped the wrinkled coverlet with both hands as she slammed back against him.

“Oh yes,” he grunted. “God, I want to stay like this forever.”

“Do it,” she whimpered. “We’ll never leave this room or this bed. Please, please.”

He curled himself around her from behind, cupping her breasts with both hands as he thrust again. She met him and they ground together, finding the rhythm that pleased them both, slow at first, building faster, faster, until their sweat merged and their panting breaths were the only sound in the quiet room.

He caught her hand, braced on the bed, and pushed it between her legs, pressing her fingers there. She rocked against their intertwined hands, seeking pleasure one last shattering time. And only when she came did he slap against her a few more times and then withdraw, the slick heat of his release splashing against her thighs as he came.

She collapsed forward and he fell beside her, pulling her back tight to his chest, their heads at the foot of the bed and their legs tangled near the pillows. For a while, it was quiet, and she reveled in the warmth of his arms around her, the slow calming of his breath against her neck, the pure comfort of just having him here.

And yet she knew it couldn’t last. They had made love a long time. It was late. Late enough that he’d probably need to return to his own bed so they wouldn’t be caught. She felt him shift, felt him starting to pull away.

She rolled to face him, and they stared at each other in the gathering dark of the dying fire. He touched her cheeks and she felt the tears that had sprung to her eyes returning. She blinked them away. She’d have plenty of time for them later—she didn’t want them right now.

He smiled as he kissed her lips, then her cheek, then her forehead. “I wish I could stay with you.”

“But you can’t,” she said. “I know.”

He kissed her again and then got up. When his robe was retied, he faced her. She tugged the sheets up around her body and sighed. “I-I know things will change in London, Rhys.”

His smile fell slowly. “Phillipa—”

“I’m not trying to ruin this night,” she said swiftly. “But this may be the last time we get to be truly alone, and I have to say this.”

He nodded, but the action was jerky, forced. “Say whatever you need to say.”

“We never made promises,” she said. “We both knew we couldn’t keep them. We both knew this was a stolen moment in time, that it couldn’t last. And tomorrow we’ll arrive in the city, where the scandal is at its peak. I know you’re going to have a great deal to do to salvage what you can of your own life. And I want you to know that I understand.”

He was staring at her, unmoving, unspeaking. For the