The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War), Eva Devon [e textbook reader .TXT] 📗

She bit her lower lip as she spotted him position his hard shaft.

Phillipa readied herself, but he did not thrust himself into her body as she had assumed he would. Oh no. He very slowly rubbed the plump tip of it up and down her slit. She jumped at the delicious sensation. It felt like silk being rubbed between her thighs. And it was perfection. Maddening perfection.

Phillipa groaned and tried to move her hips in such a way that would force him to thrust deep inside her. Instead, he teased her more, tracing his shaft over her most sensitive spot.

And then. . .much to her amazement, he met her gaze, took her hand in his, then guided it down to his thick, hard length.

He was giving her the power. Giving her the choice.

Phillipa marveled at its strength. Velvety soft, it was hard and hot. She very carefully rubbed her thumb over the little slit at the top, spreading a bead of moisture over the head.

Anthony wrapped his arms around her and the muscles in his neck strained “My god, Phillipa. . . I am yours.”

Those words thrilled her and filled her with an intense need. She caressed the long shaft and his thighs tensed beneath her. For a moment she was afraid she had hurt him, but from the look on his face, he was lost in desire.

After a moment, Phillipa couldn’t wait any longer and she guided the tip to her opening. Oh so carefully, she lowered herself.

As he entered her, there was a moment of pain.

It was intense. Very, very intense. But she allowed herself to slide down him, inch by glorious inch, determined. Her eyes widened as his large length filled her deliciously, making her feel as if his body was somehow part of hers.

And after a moment? The pain was gone. Replaced by shocking pleasure. The fullness? It felt just right.

His dark head dropped back, and he let out a sigh as she slowly rode him. Gazing at her with half-closed eyes, the pure hunger in him laced her own veins with new desire and a wish to please him as he had her.

For the first moments, she was uncertain.  But then, she grew in confidence. Here in the in the moonlight, her legs on either side of his hips and her toes balancing on the floor, all she could do was trust herself.

And feel.

And oh how she felt!

She felt everything. From his hard body inside her, to his hot skin against hers, to the beating of his heart. She felt.

Sensation claimed her.

His hands stole to her waist.

Rising up and down on her toes, gaining purchase by gripping the chair, she delighted in the remarkable feel of him inside her. He tilted his hips up, thrusting to meet her. And then, as his movements were growing more fierce, more wild, he moved one hand to the place where their bodies met. Anthony circled his fingers over her most sensitive spot and, just like that, she vanished into pleasure. Wave after wave crashing upon her.

And then? He cried her name, his pleasure as intense as her own.

Chapter 11

Bright Cornish sun spilled in through the tall castle windows, bathing the bed in a golden glow of hope.

It should have felt like spring in her arms. A moment of new beginnings and possibilities.

He did not know what it felt like. It wasn't the hopeful, eternal first moments of spring that filled him though. In fact, it was almost dread, which made no sense, for the night had been perfect.

Too perfect. God, he was such a fool to feel thus. But given the sufferings of the last year?

It was almost as if he could not accept the peace and goodness she brought him. Was he anticipating the end before it came?

It was a bitter taste. One which robbed him of the joy from the night before.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing such dark thoughts away. No, he wouldn’t wallow. Surely, he could pull himself above such things.

Anthony opened his eyes and gazed down at Philippa in awe. As he took her in beside him on the pale linen, his heart positively soared.

The dread vanished. Banished. With just one look at her. And he smiled.

He sucked in an amazed breath. How did she do that? How did looking at her inoculate him from suffering?

It wouldn’t last. Of course not. But just now? Now. . . He felt glorious beside her.

Carefully, he lifted his hand and gently traced it along her naked back.

She shimmied against him and smiled in her sleep.

Good God, she was so beautiful.

She was such perfection. How was he so lucky to have such perfection in his life. His own body was a mess of scars and the opposite of perfection.

He knew, in his mind, that such things shouldn’t matter. But his soul? His soul ached with it.

For a moment, he thought of Hades and Persephone. Was that an apt representation of the two of them?

Perhaps it was, for Philippa did seem like springtime to him with her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her smooth skin, and the way she viewed the world as if the most awful things could be molded into something beautiful.

And then there was himself, dark, in pain, angry at the world.

Yet, she seemed unwilling to let him linger in that. He was grateful to her, he supposed. How could he not be? She was willing to take a chance on him, to believe that some part of him that had been alive and well before that final battle still existed inside him.

And beside her, he could believe it was true too.

She stirred and rolled over. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said.

“Now, don't call me that,” he insisted, his breath catching at the sight of her languid and free in his bed. “You mustn't, for we are to have no such formalities about us now.”

“Are we not?” she asked playfully.

“No,” he replied stroking his fingers