Page 13 of All Hale the Queen

Any reservations either of us had fly right out the window as we make out like a couple of horny teens. Her hips rock, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence when she finds a rhythm that works for her. I massage her scalp with one hand and knead the soft curve of her arse with the other, guiding her back and forth over my length.

We both moan at the gratifying friction, and I feel like I might melt directly into this couch. She feels so fucking good… so fucking right in my lap. Her taste is intoxicating, like wine and creamy sweetness. I’d wager to guess what’s between her legs right now is just as delicious. When Ophelia pulls back, her eyes are hazed with lust, though her voice is crystal clear.

“Antonio, I’m not a woman who beats around the bush, so I’m just going to be straightforward about what I want.”

“And what’s that, Ophelia?” I ask, dropping my hand to cup the back of her neck.

“I’d really like to have sex with you tonight,” she says. Her words aren’t particularly dirty, but she delivers them with all the confidence of a woman who knows what she wants. Andthat’sthe sexiest thing in the world, especially when she punctuates it with a swirl of her pussy over my cock. “It feels like you might want the same thing.”

“Oh, I do, sweetheart. I want to bury my cock inside your pussy and nail you to the mattress until my name is the only one you remember.”

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. “That’s quite a mouth you have on you,” she teases.

“Sorry if I was a bit crude. I talk as rough as I fuck.” I stroke a tendril of hair from her cheek, not wanting to screw this up before we even get started. “But I’ll do my best to be sweet with you, love.”

She begins boldly unbuttoning my polo shirt, her eyes trained on mine.

“Antonio, if I wanted sweet, I would’ve just had another slice of cheesecake.”

Motherfucker. I think I’m in love.

Chapter 5

Ophelia

Before I know what’s happening, Antonio stands, looping one arm beneath my knees and the other around my back, scooping me into his arms. “Where’s your bedroom, Ophelia?” His voice is gruff with need.

That need is echoed with my own words. “Top of the stairs, last door on the right.” I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on by a man. Maybe never. I thought maybe the onset of menopause would dull my libido, but it only seems to have triggered some horny button inside me. Or perhaps it’s the man holding me like I’m both a treasure and a conquest.

He takes the steps two-by-two, and seconds later, we’re in my bedroom with the door closed. When he dips his head to kiss me again, I take the opportunity to run my hands over his shoulders and down his arms. He’s so damn muscular and hard… almost as hard as what I felt between his legs earlier. Hell’s bells, that thing was like a battering ram, and my thighs pinch together in anticipation.

Antonio notices the small move and pulls out of the kiss, his eyes dropping down my body. “Are you feeling a little needy, love?”

I nod stupidly becausegood lord!That accent and the way he calls meloveanddarlin’are doing unexpected things to my lady parts. Not to mention his big body holding me easily and the full beard covering his handsome face.

There’s something a little wild about this man, and it only makes me want him more.

He sets me down oh, so gently and strokes my cheek with a rough thumb. “I’ll take care of you.”

My eyes practically cross at that, and something pulses down below, an overwhelming desire to be cared for and ravaged at the same time. Antonio Walsh looks like he could do both, with maybe a tad more ravaging than caring. Fine by me.

I reach for the hem of his shirt, desperate to see what’s underneath, and he has to help me pull it off over his upstretched arms because the man is so damn tall.

His body is even more beautiful than I expected, his skin covered with ink and scars. He has a masculine smattering of hair over his broad chest, and it tapers down over his stomach and into the waistband of his jeans. Antonio doesn’t have an ounce of fat, but his torso is thick.

“Can I touch you?” I ask breathily, and he chuckles.

“Darlin’, you can do any damn thing you please to me. I’m yours.”

Well, if I wasn’t wet before, I sure as hell am now. My hands look small when I place them on his chest, and the raw masculinity of this man has my temperature rising by the second. His skin is warm, and his hair is coarse beneath my fingers when I roam them up his chest and to his shoulders. Antonio’s arms are covered with tattoos, most of them Celtic in design.

“You were shot?” I ask, circling two puckered scars on his right shoulder.

“Aye. In Yemen.”

I drag my fingers down to a long scar that extends from his stomach and around his left side. “What happened here?”

“Knife wound, but I can’t tell you where I got it,” he says, smiling apologetically.