Page 102 of Go, Rogue

“And yet it seems to me,” she goes on, reaching for the first button of his trouser flap, “that you are here…” The second button goes. “And very much…” The third and fourth follow, and his hard length springs free from its enclosure. “At my mercy.”

She places her hand around his cock, just as she’s seen him do. “Is this right?” she asks, and he grunts.

“I’ll take that as an aye,” she says and squeezes a little harder, her hand sliding up and down the length of him.

“Menace,” he groans beneath her ministrations. “Come here.”

She lifts herself to meet his kiss, her hand still on him as his mouth claims hers, all heat and hunger. She doesn’t want to stop touching him—not now, while she still can. While they can still be Andrew and Catherine, before the rest of the world inevitably intrudes.

“Is that the kind of gown,” he asks finally, pulling away from her, “whose stays are easier to undo than to fasten again?”

She grins. “As a matter of fact,” she says, “I believe it is.” She reaches behind her to undo the lacing and slips the gown off. She wears only a chemise and a simple corset underneath—decidedly not the style in London. And thank heavens for small mercies.

She repositions herself atop him, her nipples brushing against the thin, sheer undergarment, her legs shaking slightly while he slides his hand up between her thighs.

“I can take it off,” she says, reaching for the hem of the chemise.

“Not yet,” he growls, in that low, rough tone of desire she loves. She closes her eyes for a moment at the sound of it, savoring how it mirrors the passion in his gaze and the ache building in her body.

“I want to look at ye. Just like that. Yer wee nipples pert and ready.” He tweaks them beneath the chemise, then returns his hand to her thighs, moving up between them. “And yer skin is so damnably soft. And yer quim—”

He bites off his words into a groan as his fingers slip between her folds, finding the wet evidence of her desire for him.

She loses herself in his touch. In the sweet slide of his hand between her thighs, in the way he stares into her eyes. She doesn’t think any longer about the world outside this room or what it means for them. She doesn’t think about anything but the smell of him and the taste of him and the feel of his fingertips on her skin.

The pad of his finger moves gently at first, gliding through her wet heat, circling the most sensitive parts of her. She feels every sensation that shudders up her body, thick and strong, the intensity making her want more. She moves against his hand, knowing now what she likes. What she wants, and how to find it.

“Andrew,” she murmurs and opens her eyes to stare at him. He looks glazed and hungry, his breath already ragged. She realizes her hands have fallen away from him and she reaches for his body, to touch him as he touches her. He groans and slips his finger up into her, where she’s slick and hot and wanting.

She feels all her blood rush to the point where he touches her, where his fingers move deep inside her. When he begins to draw them back, she clenches around him instinctively, as if she could hold him there—inside her—forever.

“Menace, do you trust me?”

She opens her eyes and looks at him. “Yes,” she says. Because she does, with every part of her.

“Then hold still, lass, and spread your legs for me.”

She lays herself bare for him, her chemise pulled up to her hips and her knees splayed open so he can feast his eyes on her. He whispers something that sounds an awful lot like Elphame help me, but she can’t make sense of it then, because he’s reaching for her again—and then lightly pressing his fingers against that central spot of pleasure.

“Andrew—” She presses herself against him, everything forgotten but the feel of his hands on her. The rough touch of his fingertips. The exquisite rise of her pleasure.

“Aye, lass,” he says. “I want you to find your satisfaction for me. Can ye do that?”

She can. She already is, sliding herself against his bear-paw hand as he presses and circles and, good heavens, flicks. He steers her body toward release and her eyes close again as her body fills with the purity of feeling instead of thinking.

She becomes solely a creature of sensation—full of want and heat and a building, burning ache. She pants and moans and strains against him until the orgasm overtakes her like a bolt of lightning and she explodes. A thousand points of light bursting into a million stars.

When she comes back to herself, he pulls her near.

“Do ye know what they call that, lass?” he asks. “They call it a le petite mort.”

“Hmm,” she says, lazy now and sated. “The little death?”

“Aye. I can only have one at a time, but women are luckier. Some have multiple little deaths.”

She feels her body perk back up at that. “Is that so?” she asks. “Like a cat with nine lives?”

“Aye. I dunno if we can make it to nine, but I’d be damnably happy to try if you are.”