The Blood of a Baron - K.J. Jackson Page 0,47

left hand dipped down, gathering up the bottom hem of her chemise until he reached skin.

Her calf. The back of her knee. Her thigh.

His fingers shifted inward, swirling maddening circles on her inner thigh until he set his hand on her curls, close, but not breaching her folds.

Not until he descended, trapping her mouth, his lips hard, imprinting everything he was on her in one devastating kiss. His fingers dipped inward, finding the wetness deep within her and swirling it about her folds.

She was ready for him—more than ready and the only thing she wanted was him full and pulsating deep in her.

“Wes, please.” The word came out choked, already begging for release and he’d barely touched her. But the need was excruciating, the blood pounding in her core demanding.

He chuckled into her mouth. “The delay is as much for me as it is for you.”

“To torture yourself?”

His lips didn’t leave her. “To gain some semblance of control so I don’t disappoint. Plus you still have your chemise on.”

“Get rid of it.”

Another chuckle and he pulled himself up, his hands leaving her and he moved on the bed, his knees going between her legs, spreading her wide to him. His fingers weaved along the bottom of the chemise and he started to push it up her body, his palms splayed wide on her skin. Over her hips, her belly. Slowly. His lips trailed along far below the fabric—her knee, her thigh—as his hands rubbed along every nerve, teasing.

At the crux of her, he paused, flicking his tongue deep into her folds. One, two, three times. A taste of heaven. And then he withdrew.

Not heaven. Torture.

He continued to move up her body, past her breasts, her neck, her mouth, until the chemise went up over her head and onto her still-extended arms. When the fabric reached her wrists, he stopped, twisting it just below her hands, locking them in place together far above her head.

The fiery jolt that flew through her body with that one action almost sent her flailing, her hips bucking for him.

His wicked grin still in place, he descended back down her body, his face hovering over the core of her.

And then he went in. Without preamble, his fingers dove deep into her, searching, stroking, as his tongue swirled into place, his lips tugging at her nubbin. He knew how ready she was for this. For him. A flicker and then a pull. Again and again until her sight started to go, black dots filling her vision, her panted breathing no longer her own, air refusing to reach her lungs.

And still the onslaught continued.

Her hips pitched, begging, demanding when no words could form.

A third finger slid into her and it was nothing. Not enough. All she wanted was him.

She forced words through the blinding fog that had taken her over. “You—you inside of me.”

A roar—almost of some wild animal—shook through the air around her and he drove into her. Filling her like nothing ever had. Ever could.

Two strokes and she was shoved into the blinding light, her body contracting, stunning her to her core with the agony of release.

He still moved above her, each thrust into her pushing her over the edge again and again—echoes of her first release—until he expanded to impossible girth, filling her with everything he was.

Filling every part of her that she thought had been dead and buried seven years ago.

If this was the plan—if this was how he was going to destroy her…she didn’t stand a chance.

For she would trade the world. Trade everything for the feel of him on top of her. His breath mingled with hers. The heat of him protecting her like nothing else ever could.

She didn’t stand a chance.

{ Chapter 19 }

Laney closed her mouth, her body unable to move from the spot where she was sprawled naked over Wes’s chest.

They’d eaten. He’d shown her two other interesting and very rewarding ways in which their bodies could fit together.

And now she couldn’t move.

Wouldn’t move ever again, if she could convince him of it.

His hand stroking her hair draped along her spine stilled.

That was never good.

“There’s something else you need to know about the box, Laney.” His words were hesitant—he didn’t want to talk more about the box. Yet he was.

Her head dipped down, her forehead landing on his bare chest. “No. No more on the box. I don’t care about the damn thing. I don’t care on what coin Morty failed to leave me. I just want it to