The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

Her hands twitched at her sides then started to rise, presumably to hide herself from him. Murmuring something that sounded strangled in his throat, he cuffed her wrists, preventing the movement. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because she stole his breath.

Dark-tipped, full breasts that almost filled his hands—his palms itched with the memory of their weight, texture and sensitivity. The barest dip of a waist that he ached to trace with his tongue. The swollen, beautiful belly that was still on the smaller side but would continue to grow as the months passed. Fear of that time, of what would come after flickered in his chest, but he locked it away, let the pure wonder of her fill him instead. Round hips that a dark part of him hungered to see marked by his fingers. The thick, toned legs that he wanted wrapped around his waist, so he could experience their strength firsthand.

The wet, plump folds of her sex. His hold on her tightened as he stared at the dark thatch of hair that couldn’t hide the moisture gleaming on her flesh and upper thighs. His mouth watered. He wanted to dip his head and taste her—feast on her—so bad his jaw throbbed, his throat worked.

“I’m trying.” Damn, was that his voice? The harsh tone resembled an animal’s snarl. “I’m trying hard not to dive into you. To take you like a man instead of the starved thing I’ve become. To handle you gently, like you deserve, instead of hard, rough. Instead of fucking you until my dick cries for mercy. Until your screams of pleasure are all I hear, and you come so hard, you break for me. Fuck, Sydney. I want you to break for me.”

“What if I deserve gentle and hard and rough?” Fingers lightly stroked his short hair, and for the first time in two years, he fleetingly wished he hadn’t cut it. Right now, he would’ve loved having those clever, delicate fingers pulling on the strands, feeling pinpricks of pleasure/pain skate across his scalp. “Don’t hold back with me,” she urged, her nails scratching him, and he grunted with the bite of it, not too proud to beg for more. “You won’t hurt me because you’re you. I trust you to take care of me. Of us both.”

Was he worthy of that trust? He couldn’t answer that. But here, kneeling before this goddess of a woman, he wanted to be. In this—the exchange of passion—he vowed to be.

“Do what you want. Use me, Cole.”

She parted her legs.

Oh fuck.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if shutting out the erotic sight of her would somehow cool the agony of controlling his baser needs. But her scent—damp, heavy, sweet with that hint of spice. He snapped.

With impatient hands, he gripped her hips, quickly guided her to the floor, arranging her so she reclined on her hands, knees bent and open. Then he dove between her thighs. One, long, greedy lick—from her fluttering entrance, between her swollen folds and up to the pulsing, engorged button cresting the top.

Goddamn. That first taste. Like a hit of the most potent and highly addicting drug. The scent was rich, heady, like he was sampling the undiluted flavor of her—Sydney. Pure Sydney. And he was already hooked. And he took. And took. And took. With short, teasing laps. Long, greedy sucks. Messy strokes. Hard flicks and merciless rubs.

Her cries rained down on him and her legs shook around his head. Palming her inner thighs and spreading her wider, he dove lower, thrusting his tongue into that channel where his cock wept to be. Groaning as her sex spasmed around him, he released one thigh to grip his erection, squeezing through the sweatpants. Pleasure blasted up his spine like a rocket, and for a moment, he feared he would go over without even burying himself inside the flesh he tormented and worshipped.

A glance up her torso, and for a moment, he was enraptured. Sprawled on her elbows, head thrown back, chest heaving, hips twisting and bucking, she embodied sex. A carnal, pagan goddess manifested right here in his bedroom.

Her tortured groan snapped him out of his stupor, and he returned his attention to her slick flesh. Dipping his head again, he lapped at her clit, circling the distended button. Lower, he mimicked the movement with his fingers over the entrance to her body then slowly pushed them inside her. She shuddered and cried out, her back arching high, thrusting her breasts toward the ceiling. That sound, the evidence of her pleasure, the eager grasping of her sex around his fingers... With a moan, he finger-fucked her, the heel of his palm bumping against her folds, her moisture coating his skin.

“Cole,” she pleaded, voice ragged, breathless. “Please. God, please.”

He couldn’t hold back any longer, couldn’t hold out on her. Curling his fingers, he rubbed a place high and deep, and sucked hard on her. On a choked scream, Sydney came, writhing and undulating. He kept at her, not stopping until she weakly pushed at his head, whimpering “no more.”

Giving her pulsing clit one last kiss, he drew free of her sex and rose to his feet, his own legs trembling with unfulfilled need. He slid his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean, and watching the renewed flare of heat in her eyes. Bending down, he grasped her hands and helped her to stand. Silently, he led her to the bed, helping her onto the mattress.

Gaze fixed on her sweat-dampened, beautiful body, he removed his clothes. He moved to the dresser and retrieved the newly bought box of condoms. She was pregnant, and so they could have sex without protection. But he’d... The box trembled in his hands. He’d only ever been bare with one woman. That particular intimacy—he didn’t know if he was ready for it. Didn’t know if Sydney was ready for that when she was carrying another man’s baby. So, he didn’t ask. Couldn’t ask.

Nabbing one of the packets, he climbed on the