Page 33 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)
“Always.” Talking wasn’t as difficult as he’d feared.
All he had to do was say exactly what he thought in that moment, which was easy considering every blessed thought in his head belonged to the bright-eyed woman watching him hopefully.
“The problem is that when I wake up, I’m left wondering how soft your skin really is.
” He slowly dragged a knuckle up her calf, humming his appreciation. “Now I know you’re as soft as a petal.”
She sighed, her legs easing, becoming heavier across his lap.
Encouraged, he bent to kiss her. Slowly, delicately.
He sipped and tasted, enjoying the remnants of chamomile tea.
He brushed his fingertips across her supple calves, featherlight and teasing, and her tension began to unravel.
Soon, she wasn’t merely enduring, but clinging to his neck. Meeting his lips. Kissing him back.
Yes. This was how it should be.
“You’re so lovely,” he murmured against her mouth, undoing her second garter and dancing his fingers up her inner thigh.
She shifted her hips, gifting him more access, and he claimed it at once, sliding upward until he was almost at the apex of her thighs.
“I can feel your heat through your drawers. I can’t wait to touch you there.
To stroke your sweet pussy. Make you feel so good.
” She mewled, low in her throat, and the throaty sound echoed through him. “Do you want that, too, min k?raste?”
She nodded, her forehead bumping against his. “Yes.”
Relief made his limbs feel weak. He ignored the painful throb in his trousers, ignored the selfish ache clawing through him. Olive first. He parted her drawers carefully, questing inside until his fingers brushed damp curls. She gasped when he stroked along her seam.
“You’re so wet. So sweet. God, I want to see—" She tensed, and he soothed her immediately. “No, not yet. That’s all right. We’ll just feel. Just enjoy.”
He slid a finger over her slick folds. She gasped, her back arching. He buried his lips against her neck, half kissing, half mumbling nonsense words as he petted her. He dipped his fingertip inside her slit, coating his fingers with her arousal before sweeping upward to circle her clitoris.
“Emil,” she moaned, legs restless in his lap. “Emil.”
“I know, k?raste. I know.” He pressed kisses up her neck. “You’re doing such a good job.”
Her hips began to lift, seeking him, and he gave her more—easing a finger inside her, slow and careful, waiting for her body to take him in.
His cock throbbed painfully, his mind flashing with images of what it would feel like to be inside her, to sink deep into that tight, clenching heat. He shoved the urge away. Olive first.
But lust had its own ideas. Almost without thought, he slid his fingers free and brought them to his lips, sucking her taste into his mouth. His eyelids fluttered half-shut, savoring. “Christ,” he groaned. “You taste like heaven.”
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch. She leaned closer, watching with fascination as he did it again. This time, he let out a low moan, and she shivered at the sound.
“Look at what you do to me,” he rasped, gesturing to the straining bulge in his pants. “Touching you, tasting you…it sets me on fire.”
She stared at him with wide eyes. “I’m on fire, too.”
His cock—and his heart—ached at her sweet, brave confession. Words, it appeared, worked on him, too. He dove back inside her drawers, pressing his finger inside her pussy, stroking her clitoris with his thumb until she was gasping, shuddering.
She clutched the blanket up over her face, muffling her cries.
“No,” he said, panting, desperation coating his voice. “Don’t hide, min k?raste. Not when your pleasure is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her pussy squeezed his finger, and he knew she’d heard him. Knew she’d felt his words, down deep inside. She lowered the blanket slowly, a sheen of sweat on her temple, and smiled bashfully.
“You’re so brave,” he rasped, finding a rhythm that made her gasp and quiver. “So beautiful and brave.”
“I—I—” She broke apart on his hand, her body shuddering.
The sight of her coming, the feel of her gripping his finger, the sound of her moans—his control shredded. His other hand yanked at his buttons, desperation overriding finesse. His cock sprang free, and before he could stop it, before he could even think, release ripped through him.
Ropes of seed spilled over his fist, hot and sudden. He stared down at himself, stunned.
Christ. He’d never lost control like that. Never come so quickly. Not without her even touching him.
What the hell?
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Olive pushed to a seated position, flushed and blinking as though she’d surfaced from a dream. “Was that… normal?”
Emil groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Not for me.”
Her laughter bubbled, light and sweet, and he was powerless against it. It made him want to haul her against his chest, tuck her under his chin, and forget every rule he’d ever made about never cuddling after pleasure. Just this once. Just with Olive. He shifted, reaching for her—
“It’s getting late.” She leaned over to retrieve her discarded garters. “I’d better freshen up and head home. I don’t want Mama to worry.”
His arm fell across the back of the sofa. “Of course. I’ll walk you to the streetcar.”
“Thank you, that would be nice.” She stood, swishing her skirts into place, and then walked toward the bathroom.
Emil remained seated, needing a moment to calm the churning in his chest.
He’d been prepared to break his own rule.
What in God’s name was happening to him?