The Rogue Not Taken
He watched her for a long moment, and then moved his hand, revealing the hard length of himself, throbbing high against his stomach. Her gaze did not waver, not even when she said the only thing that came to mind. “In this, you do not look like David.”
He laughed and reached for her. “I shall take that as a compliment,” he growled, pulling her closer, brushing the edges of her dressing gown over her shoulders and down her arms until she, too, was naked.
“I don’t suppose you would lie down for me? It would make everything much easier,” she said, and he did, remarkably, stretching out on his back and lifting her to straddle him, her knees on either side of his hips.
She stared down at him, taking in his sheer masculine beauty. “You are . . .” She trailed off.
He reached up to cup her breasts, playing at the hard tips until she sighed and rocked against him, making him groan.
She would never get her exploration this way. She clasped his hands. “Stop. It’s my turn.”
He raised a brow. “You don’t want me to touch you?”
“Of course I do. But I wish to touch you more.”
He exhaled, long and graveled before he stretched his arms up, stacking them beneath his head. “I am yours to explore, my lady.”
And he allowed it, allowed her to stroke and discover, over his arms and chest, leaning over to kiss the corded muscles of his shoulders, to suck at the skin of his neck, to kiss down the slope of his chest until his breath came in quick pants and he groaned her name. “You’re the worst kind of tease,” he whispered. “I can feel you there, hot and wet above me.”
She pressed against him, reveling in him, hard and hot. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes,” he said. “In the best kind of way.”
“How?”
He reached for her, pulling her down for a kiss. “You’re so curious.”
“If this is the only time—” She stopped. She wouldn’t think about this being the only time. She collected herself. “How does it hurt?”
“It aches. For you.”
She scooted back, revealing the hard length of him. “May I touch it?”
He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t let you,” he said. “I should pack you into that pretty green gown and send you back to bed. Before it’s too late.”
She shook her head. “I wish you wouldn’t.” And she touched him anyway, stroking him in a long, lingering touch, reveling in the way he sucked in a breath of air and closed his eyes. “Does that help?”
“Do it again.” The command sent wicked pleasure through her.
She obeyed. “Like this?”
King’s green eyes opened, and he leveled her with the most glorious look she’d ever seen, his hands coming to hers, showing her how to touch him, how to stroke. He grew under her ministrations, somehow harder, longer. More handsome.
She could not stop staring at him, even when she said, “What you did to me . . . with your mouth.”
He groaned, harsh and unsettling in the quiet room. “Yes?”
“I’d like to . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, instead scooting back, leaning down to press a kiss to the hard, hot tip of him, straining above their hands. He growled at the touch, and she lifted her head. “Is this . . .”
“It’s fucking perfect,” he said. “Christ, Sophie.”
Somehow, the foul language made the entire moment more perfect, and she lowered her lips again, taking him into her mouth, licking at him, sucking tentatively, glorying in the way he moved against her, showing her what he liked, chanting her name like a prayer. “Sophie . . . love . . . yes . . .”
She continued, learning the taste and feel of him, loving the pleasure she gave him. Loving the fact that she could give him this pleasure, here, now, once, before she left. She put all her love into the caress, wanting him to know the truth—that there would never be anyone else for her.
After too short a time, he thrust his hands into her hair and lifted her from him. “Stop,” he said, sitting up, his strong arms pulling her up to straddle him as he stole her lips in a long, wicked kiss. He released her with a gasping breath and repeated himself. “Stop.”
“Did you not . . .”
He rolled her down onto her back, finding his way between her thighs, his hands coming to her hair, holding her still for another kiss. “I did. Christ. I’ve never enjoyed anything like I did that.” He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed. “You must go back to your room, love. We cannot do this.”
No.
She didn’t want to leave him.
She put her hand to his cheek. “King.”
He shook his head. “I stood on this side of the damn door for an age, trying to convince myself that you are not mine. That I can’t have you. If we do this, Sophie . . .”
He trailed off, and she heard a myriad of finishes of the sentence.
If we do this, I’ll never forgive myself.
If we do this, you’ll be ruined.
If we do this, you’ll still be alone tomorrow.
She reached up and kissed him softly. “I don’t care. I want it.”
“You want me.”
“I love you,” she vowed. “I’ll only ever love you.”
“How am I to deny you anything after that?”
She lifted her hips against his, testing the power of her movement, loving the way his eyes darkened at her touch. “You aren’t to deny me.”
“Sophie,” he whispered, shifting, the hard length of him finding the wet heart of her, the tip of him teasing at the place where she wanted him quite desperately. Pleasure shot through her.