A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,83
knew that. It would—
His teeth grazed her nipple and her back arched.
“Mmmm, yes,” he whispered against her skin, nudging her thighs wider, leaving her unspeakably exposed.
His hand slid down her belly, through her damp curls, and between her swollen lips.
“Oh, Honey.” He thrust a finger into her, his wicked thumb insistent and caressing. Her back arched, her hips thrusting for his touch. Honey writhed as he worked her toward her climax with the same erotic, ruthless efficiency that he’d employed last night.
Hot breath fanned against her skin and she dazedly realized his mouth had moved from her breast to her stomach to—
“Simon!”
He chuckled against the divinely sensitive place he’d already mastered with his fingers.
And then he began to master her with his mouth.
***
Simon braced his hands on her velvety thighs and opened her wide as he impaled her with his tongue, ignoring the source of her pleasure while she recovered from the climax that had just wracked her, leaving the room echoing with his name.
While he explored her folds with his mouth, lips, and tongue he imagined another part of himself stroking into her and plunging deeply into her tight heat. She rode his thrusting tongue, bucking and grinding and using him for her pleasure.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, kneading, and causing him sweet pain as her nails raked his battered scalp.
Simon reluctantly abandoned her tight, clenching passage to stroke her tiny jewel. He cradled her bud with his tongue, laving and sucking until she shouted out his name and yanked hair out by the roots.
She was still shuddering when he rose to his knees, placed his fat crown at her entrance, and thrust into her, not stopping until he was hilted.
Her eyes flew open and he saw shock, pain, awareness, curiosity, relief, and—finally—submission, as her pliant body accommodated his thick shaft as nature intended.
Her tight sheath pulsed around him, but she remained still, her eyes wide and trusting.
Simon swallowed hard as his body quivered with need. “Good?” he asked gruffly, the single word all he could manage.
She nodded slowly. And then her hips moved a little, the change in angle bringing him even deeper.
A deep groan of pleasure burst from between his tightly clenched jaws. “That felt exquisite,” he gritted out, holding her gaze as he withdrew almost all the way before entering her with another long, firm thrust. She shivered and squirmed but he saw no pain in her eyes as he kept her impaled.
Once again, she opened herself to him, tilting even more this time, taking him deeper, until she was utterly filled and stretched and dominated.
My wife.
The thought acted as an aphrodisiac on his already aroused body, sending a rush of blood and a throb of desire to his already engorged shaft; Honey gave a soft grunt of pleasure when he flexed inside her.
Simon could restrain himself no longer. He began to move, stroking into her with slow, deep thrusts that gave her his entire length, but without too much force.
He shook with the effort of restraining himself.
He’d been too close to the edge by the time he entered her and not even a miracle could hold back his orgasm.
Soon his eyelids began to droop and his control started to slip. His hips drummed into her, his thrusts savage and deep.
Pulling himself from her wet heat before he exploded wasn’t the hardest thing he’d ever done, but it was agonizing. He was so primed that he needed no help from his hand to spend, covering her quivering belly in ribbons of hot spend.
Even in his lust-drunk state, Simon knew that he had left it close. Too close. He would have to take more care—next time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When Honey woke, the room was full dark and only shards of light penetrating the heavy window coverings.
She tried to turn but something warm and heavy held her pinned. Two somethings, actually: one across her breasts and one over her hip; a man’s arm and leg.
Simon.
An uncharacteristic wave of giddiness rolled over her. Of course, it was Simon. They were married. Truly married, now, for better or for worse.
Well, this seemed good—very good—and she should seize it with both hands.
What did it matter if he were not the boy he’d once been? She was not that girl, either. She no longer expected fairy tale endings.
Besides, while he was no longer sweet and innocent—and although he was often distant and unknowable and cold—he had been gentle and kind with her.