Page 37 of The Desert King's Kidnapped Virgin
To him.
Tonow.
“Cyrus...” she began, in a voice that sounded both like her and not like her at all.
As if she was already changed forever.
“Quiet,omri,” he murmured. His gaze was a glittering thing and she wasn’t sure what left more fire in its wake—the places where his eyes traveled or the work of his hands. Either way, she could feel that softness in her shifting already, heating up, becoming its own bright heat. “The time for words has passed.”
And that seemed more than fine to Hope, because words took effort and all she wanted to do was throw herself headfirst—again—into the abandonment he promised with every touch, every look.
A promise he had already more than kept.
But first Cyrus took it upon himself to explore every bit of her body.
He flipped her so that she was facedown on the bed and she found herself laughing with the sheer joy of it as he began at her feet, then took his time, seeming to learn every bit of her while she pressed herself into the caress of the sheets beneath her and felt her own temperature skyrocket.
And by the time he made it to her neck, she wasn’t laughing any longer.
He pressed hot, stirring kisses to her nape. And his hands were like angels and demons at once, making her writhe and moan.
Cyrus held her to him, palming the side of her face and turning her head so that his mouth could find hers.
His kiss was bold and deep, demanding and stirring, and she could do nothing but give herself over to it—to him—completely.
Especially when he took his other hand and stroked his way over one breast, down to her navel, and then, at last, found her soft, swollen folds.
He played there for a moment, then delved within.
It was almost too much, Hope thought, but she could barely form the ghost of that thought in her own head.
Because he drew figure eights in her softness, learning the honeyed contours of her most secret place. And even as she moaned into his mouth, his tongue stroked her there, too.
And when she shuddered at the dual assault, his fingers reached deeper and he found her entrance.
Then, with an inexorable twist of his wrist, he thrust a long, hard finger in deep.
Making everything seemed to throb and glow.
He kissed her and kissed her, still holding her splayed out between his mouth and his hand.
At her core, he played her expertly, that impossibly hard finger inside her while his thumb found her proud center, making her buck against him, moving her hips in an inexpert haze of joy and need—
Until she broke apart all over again.
And this time, Cyrus didn’t let her drift off.
He rolled her over to her back, and found his way between her legs, drawing them open and settling himself between them.
Hope was still sobbing wildly, still shaking.
And that hard jut of his manhood that she had felt against the small of her back became something else again as he ran the length of it through her folds, making the storm that gripped her go on and on and on.
Making her shake even more at the size of him.
And the sure knowledge that he intended to replace his finger with...that.
Hope might have been a virgin, but there was nothing shy about her.
