Page 131 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

His big body resisted only for a second before he groaned and took what she offered, seizing possession of her mouth with a carnality that robbed her of breath.

As she had with their waltzing, Stacia initially struggled to keep pace with him, his lips, tongue, and hands shattering what few wits she had.

And then his knee pressed against the juncture of her legs. With hardly a thought, she opened to him.

It was Stacia’s turn to groan at the delicious friction.

“Yes,” he murmured into her hair. His hands slid to her bottom and he lifted her until she was straddling his hard thigh.

The wantonness of her position should have left her red-faced with shame, but the jagged pulses of pleasure were too powerful to ignore—too delicious not to chase.

“That’s right,” he said, his voice gravelly and his breath hot on her ear as he rocked her hips with both his hands, moving her with ease until her body fell into the rhythm. “Just like that, Stacia.” His hands slid beneath her thighs and he spread her wider, adjusting the angle of his leg until the sensation was unbearable and she clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips writhing and bucking.

She whimpered, struggling to get away from a pleasure that threatened to undo her. “I can’t—”

“You can.” Again, his hands urged, rocking her at the perfect speed and angle, until Stacia was unable to contain the explosion of sensory pleasure that shot from her sex up her spine.

Over and over the bliss rippled, her muscles stiffening and then going limp between each wave. She had just begun to float back down to earth when he slid a hand between his thigh and her sex, cupped her mound and used one finger to unerringly find the source of her pleasure.

The second explosion was less of a surprise than the first, but the muscles inside her stunned body clenched even harder.

Stacia was vaguely aware that Andrew had lifted her in both arms and was carrying her, the sounds of his boot heels drumming the insensibility from her and bringing her back sharply to reality.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said when she tried to sit up. He kissed her ear and took her not to the settee or bed, but to his wingchair and then sat, with Stacia cradled in his lap. “Shh, shh,” he murmured when she tried to cover her scalding face. “You did nothing wrong and everything right, darling.” He covered every part of her face—at least anything that was visible between her splayed fingers—with kisses. “Leave guilt for other people, Stacia. For boring people.”

She gave a watery laugh, suddenly noticing that her cheeks were wet.

“Here then,” he said, gently pulling one of her hands away. “Why are you crying? Did I hurt you, sweetheart?”

“No,” she snapped, or at least she tried to, but it came out as more of a snivel, which only angered her. “I am embarrassed—surely you can understand that?” This time she did manage to snap.

He shifted her and reached into his pocket, drawing out a handkerchief. “Here.”

“Thank you,” she muttered, her tone distinctly ungrateful.

Naturally, he laughed. And then kissed her. “Never be embarrassed of your sensuality, Stacia. I wish you could have seen what I did—a beautiful, erotic, magnificent woman taking what she wanted.” He ignored her mortified groan and caught her hand, keeping her from covering her face again. He claimed her mouth, giving her a deep, drugging kiss that left her wrung out.

“There,” he murmured when she sighed and went limp in his arms. “That is much better.” He rocked her gently, kissing and murmuring.

Stacia did not recall ever feeling so cared for, so…cherished. And loved.

But it was an illusion, she was not so far gone as to not realize that.

Even so, she decided that for once, she would simply enjoy the moment rather than look toward the cold reality that would come afterward.

***

Andrew smiled when he saw that she’d fallen into a doze, her lips parted, breath coming in soft, even little puffs. He knew he should tuck her into bed and let her sleep. She would be mortified when she woke up in his arms. But he decided to please himself and keep her. What a delicious little armload of passion she was. Watching her orgasm not once, but twice, had been bloody erotic. He’d been a hair’s breadth away from spending in his breeches. It was a good thing he hadn’t. Not just for his pride, but these were the only pair he had.

As he studied her face, so much younger looking in repose, he remembered that he had promised himself not to touch her again after last night.

So much for that.

He wanted to touch her again. And again. All kinds of touches—especially the ones that would leave her with no choice but to marry him.

Andrew had no idea where this sudden desire for marriage—not just with anyone, but with her—had come from. It seemed insane to admit it, even in the privacy of his own head, but he felt like he knew her.

He snorted softly. According to Stacia, they had met dozens of times.