Page 92 of Gone with the Rake

“Smaller?” He emptied it in one go, then handed it back.

“Perhaps,” she answered with a shrug. Or perhaps, it wasn’t as intimidating as it had once been.

The moment she placed the glass on the bedside table, his hands were on her—grabbing her waist and flipping her onto the mattress with an undignified squeal.

Before she could catch her breath, his weight followed, covering her like a blanket, his hungry eyes devouring her.

“I hope you don’t find anything else smaller than you remember,” he joked, smiling.

Lydia laughed, and he paused, watching her as if mesmerized.

He didn’t look sleepy anymore.

His eyelids were heavy, not with exhaustion, she realized, but with desire.

A second later, his lips were on hers, their tongues locked, rubbing against each other, tasting, licking, devouring.

Her hands framed his face, tracing the lines of his unshaven jaw with her fingertips. It prickled. She couldn’t help but smile.

His hands traveled down her sides, settling on her hips, his arousal pressing firmly against her center.

A moan escaped her lips, but he swallowed it, kissing her deeper, harder. He rocked his hips against her, his rigid length sliding against her belly.

She arched beneath him, her body signaling what her words did not.

She was ready. She wanted him, too.

He shifted lower, positioning his shaft at her center, demanding entrance. She widened her legs and wrapped them around his hips, raising her pelvis closer to him. He paused, hovering over her. His lips were bright red from her bites and kisses, his onyx eyes shining with hunger and passion. Then his tip entered her core, and she moaned.

A little more. She was stretched sweetly, and she raised her hips again to take more of him. One thrust, and he was seated fully inside her.

He groaned. She whimpered.

Her fingers curled into his back, her fingers biting into his flesh.

God, how good he felt.

“Lydia,” he rasped. “You feel so good.”

She smiled and rocked her hips. His fingers bit into her buttocks as he withdrew from her only to drive into her once more.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, more, please!”

He grinned and repeated the motion. And when he did it again, seating him inside her to the hilt, his body deliciously rubbed against her swollen nub.

He rocked against her once more and continued driving into her in an unrelenting rhythm.

Sweat covered his forehead as he worked on top of her, and all Lydia could do was urge him on.

It felt so good, so fucking good.

A frantic knock sounded on the door.

Thorn cursed but refused to slow the rhythm.

“Art,” she breathed, but he shook his head.

“Let them knock. I am not going to stop.”