Page 85 of All Scot and Bothered

He’d wanted to take longer, to dine until he had his fill, but, it seemed, he was not impervious to her sweet, husky entreaties for release.

Finally, he feathered his tongue over her crest, applying the very lightest of pressure.

She came apart beneath his mouth, smothering a hoarse cry as her legs struggled to close, but were impeded by the sturdy arms of the chair. Ramsay held her down, pleasuring her relentlessly, flicking his tongue just below her nub.

His vision swam and clouded as she came in long, rolling waves. Her sex rolled against his face, hips bucking, flooding his mouth with the slippery moisture he craved. He stayed with her, pressing her thighs wider with his hands, pinning her down. Spilling pleasure from his lips and tongue, not intending to cease until she could take no more.

He had to be certain he’d launched her to the same place she’d sent him only moments before. That place where time and space ceased to exist. Where names were forgotten and consequences were damned.

He’d never forget the sight of her like this. Open and writhing. Tears rolling into her mussed curls as she convulsed beneath his hungry mouth. She bit at the flesh of her palm, and he found that so decadently sensual, he swelled almost to bursting.

The feral part she’d awakened in him wanted to biteher thigh. To mark her as his. But she reached down between them, her fingers plunging into his hair. She yanked and pulled, peeling his mouth away from her sex with a loud, wet sound.

“I can’t…” she panted.

“I know, lass,” he growled wickedly, prowling up her splayed body, allowing her to tug him against her.

“I need you close.” The confession sounded so small. So young and vulnerable as she grasped at him, burying her face in his neck. “That. That was so…” Her breath hit his chest in little puffs as she nuzzled into him, lifting her knees away from the arms of the chair and locking them around his waist.

He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand before burying his face against her curls. “Ye’re the most delicious woman,” he crooned. “I’ll forever crave yer taste.”

“Truly?” She sounded both pleased and astonished. If a voice could blush, hers would have done it.

Had no one ever told her that before?

His sex, already hard and hot, slid against her slick flesh, seeking a home in her welcoming warmth.

He could feel the little pulses of her feminine muscles in the aftermath of her orgasm. When he would have thrust forward, she pulled her head back, looking up at him, her gaze searching and uncertain.

“Ramsay?”

He paused, staring down into eyes as deep blue as the Adriatic Sea, and just as mysterious. “Aye?”

“Will you hate me after?”

He only hated himself for ever causing her to fear that.

Tucking a wild curl behind her ear, he welled with such a deep tenderness it soothed the wild beast he’d become. “I never hated ye, Cecelia,” he confided. “Not even when I believed ye deserved it.”

She closed her eyes and sought his mouth for a kiss, which he gave her. Her body rolled against his, her hips arching upward in eager invitation.

He found her opening without using his hand to guide him, and wet the crown of his cock with her abundant moisture before driving forward.

Or… attempting to.

Her muscles clamped down so tightly he couldn’t gain more than an inch. Readjusting her in the chair, he bore forward once more.

This time her cry of distress stopped him before her unyielding muscles had the chance to.

Ramsay’s heart surged. Then stopped. His veins turned to ice.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

He pulled back to look down at her features, which were distorted with plaintive discomfort.

He disentangled himself from her, rocked back on his heels, and looked down.

Blood.