Not a Marrying Man. Miranda Lee
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‘Would you like that?’ he demanded to know, his breathing growing heavier as he pressed himself even harder against her bare buttocks.
‘Yes,’ she choked out.
His naked groan betrayed a level of need possibly even greater than her own.
‘What on earth am I going to do with you?’ he growled.
Amber moaned, having reached that point where pride and shame had become totally irrelevant. She needed Warwick inside her, right then and there, regardless of the fact that she was standing in the middle of a well-lit, glass-walled living room, less than a hundred metres away from where boats full of tourists were enjoying evening dinner cruises on Sydney Harbour.
‘Please,’ she heard herself practically beg as she moved her legs wantonly apart.
Warwick heard the wild desperation in her voice, felt the uncontrollable excitement that had taken possession of her. He should have felt triumphant. Clever old Warwick, knowing exactly what buttons to press and words to say to seduce her into a state of total surrender.
Why, then, did he suddenly feel bitterly ashamed of himself?
The answer was obvious.
Because she loves you, you bastard. She’s not some cheap whore who doesn’t care what you do to her.
But even as he told himself all this Warwick was unzipping his trousers. His conscience kept screaming at him not to, but Amber wasn’t the only one who’d reached the point of no return.
He groaned as he slid into her, wallowing in the feel of her flesh enclosing his like a tightening fist. She made some sound, a moan perhaps, though not of pain, but of pleasure. It was impossible to stop now. With his right hand splayed firmly over her stomach, and his left cupping her right breast, he began to move his hips.
Not so fast, Warwick, he warned himself as his body immediately surged towards a decidedly premature release. His hips, however, refused to obey him. They jerked back and forth with an urgency that would not be denied, his outspread fingers pressing upwards on her belly, lifting her buttocks up higher against his abdomen, the angle affording him a deeper penetration.
Warwick grimaced as he felt the hot blood rushing along his veins. He was going to come! Hell on earth, he hadn’t come this fast in decades!
Amber’s suddenly shattering apart in his arms was a huge relief to his pride, allowing him to abandon what little control he had left.
He cried out, holding her tight against him as he ejaculated with the ferocity of an erupting volcano.
She shuddered with him, the contractions of her orgasm more intense, he thought, than ever before. The fantasy he’d painted about keeping her imprisoned in a dungeon had really turned her on. So much so that she’d forgotten who might be watching what they were up to.
You should do this more often, Warwick. Play erotic games with her.
Up till now he’d hardly touched the sides of what he’d learned over many years of hedonistic behaviour. There was so much more he could show her, and do with her.
The only question was … should he?
As much as Warwick was tempted by the thought of becoming Amber’s tutor in the erotic arts, he knew that the more imaginative and adventurous practices—whilst wildly exciting—carried a degree of danger; the danger of corruption.
The last thing he wanted to do was corrupt Amber. Pleasure her … yes. Satisfy her … yes. Corrupt her? No.
He would not destroy her basic innocence, he decided as he gently withdrew, then scooped her up into his arms. Such innocence was too precious. She was too precious.
He was going to miss her terribly, he thought as he carried her into the bedroom. But not tonight. For now she was still his.
He wouldn’t think about the future. Tonight was for nothing but pleasure.
Hers.
His.
But mostly hers.
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