Page 104 of Cold November Rake

Her pulse quickened.

She stroked him slowly, her palm curving around his length, learning the shape of him.

She remembered the rhythm he had liked—base to tip, a firm pressure that made his breath catch—and she followed it now, her hand moving in slow, deliberate arcs that drew a small sound from his throat.

His hand found hers, his fingers closing around her wrist.

"Like this," he said. "Slower at the top. There's a—yes, there."

His thumb pressed against the back of her hand, increasing the pressure just where the head of his cock met her palm, and the sensation made him shudder.

Temperance followed his lead, her hand moving to the rhythm he set, guided by the pressure of his fingers on hers.

She swung one knee over his hips and sat up astride him, looking for a more comfortable position.

His hands came to rest on her thighs, and his eyes went dark.

His thumbs traced small, absent circles on the crests of her hipbones.

Then she lifted her hips and positioned his cock at the center of her.

Sutton's eyes went wide.

"Tempe," he said, very low.

"Hush," she said. "I rode five miles on a post horse once. I know what I am about."

She sank down onto him slowly, so slowly that he swore under his breath and his fingers tightened on her thighs. She held there, filled and trembling, and watched his face. Then she began to move.

She rocked against him, experimenting with the angle, and was rewarded with a low groan, and the way his fingers dug into her hips told her she had found the right rhythm.

He let her lead. His hands roamed over her hips, her waist, her breasts. He raised himself on one elbow to take her nipple in his mouth, and she gasped and moved faster.

"Ride me," he commanded hoarsely. "Take your pleasure."

Temperance moaned and threw her head back.

His thrusts became more insistent, jostling her on top of him, adding to the sweet pressure between her thighs.

But it was not enough. She wanted more.

Her fingers found the swollen flesh above where he entered her, the sensitive bundle of nerves that had been pulsing with each of his strokes. When she touched herself, the sensation was so acute that her hips jerked forward, driving him deeper and drawing a sound from Sutton that seemed to come from deep in his chest.

"That's right," Sutton whispered. "Show me what you like. Cover me with your juices."

His hands gently held her breasts as if weighing them, then his fingers kneaded the flesh, his thumb brushing across her nipple in a slow, circular motion that made her back arch.

The sensitivity was almost painful—her nipples had been hard for so long that the slightest touch sent shocks racing down to the place where their bodies joined. When Sutton pinched gently between his thumb and forefinger, the sensation tore a gasp from her that echoed off the ceiling.

"Edward," she breathed, not recognizing her own voice.

Sutton's response was a low, approving hum. He drew her down toward him, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below her ear. The warmth of his breath there sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.

She stroked herself in gentle, experimental circles, finding the rhythm that worked best in tandem with his thrusts.

Her eyes fluttered shut. The dual sensation—him inside her, filling her, the thick stretch of his cock moving in and out with a steadiness that made her thighs shake, and her own fingers—built a tension in her lower belly that coiled tighter with each passing second.

"Look at you," Sutton murmured against her ear. His voice was rough, and the raw hunger in it made her clench around him involuntarily. "Christ, Temperance, the way you touch yourself⁠—"