My Darling Mr. Darling by Aydra Richards

Author:Aydra Richards [Richards, Aydra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-10-03T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Violet’s legs trembled, no longer accustomed to such strenuous exercise. Her spine felt bruised where it pressed against the unyielding wall. Her fingers clutched at John’s hair, his coat—anywhere she could reach in the service of holding herself closer.

His private flesh was notched against hers, and she would have sworn she could feel his heartbeat pulsing through it. He was hard and hot, and every time his hips moved in those barely perceptible motions—as if he could not quite restrain himself—she grew wetter, her body readying itself for the intrusion of his.

Which seemed not to be coming anytime soon, to her chagrin.

She let fall the handful of his hair she’d clutched, sliding her hand once more between them. He groaned when her fingers brushed him, his hips jerking so sharply that the wall scratched her spine even through her dress, her chemise, and her stays. Her thumb rubbed over the broad head of his cock, where a drop of moisture had welled up, and she swirled it with the pad until he shuddered and dropped his head once more to her shoulder.

“Christ,” he said, his voice hoarse and dry as sawdust. “Don’t do that—I won’t last through it.” His teeth grazed her bare skin in a nip that made her legs tremble with something other than the exertion of holding herself up.

“Well, that hardly matters if you’re not going to do anything,” she heard herself snap in what was perhaps the most petulant tone she had ever employed. It seemed wrong, somehow, to chastise him given their situation, but she had had disappointments enough. This would be just one more to add to the pile of them which towered so high that it was in danger of imminent collapse already.

But he chuckled, as if her waspish tone had been amusing, and said, as if to confirm it to himself once more, “You really aren’t a virgin?”

Her busy fingers stilled. “No,” she said, but the word trembled awkwardly, because he had said that he didn’t care, and she wasn’t ashamed of it, because it truly had had nothing at all to do with him, and if he truly did care, then she—

“Thank God,” he said with true feeling, and his hands clutched her hips in a fierce grip as he adjusted her, adjusted himself, and then began to slide inside her in a slow, deep glide. With a squeak of surprise, she caught his shoulder in one hand and held, kneading as he murmured soothing nonsense peppered with praise against her temple, the slight abrasion of the shadows of whiskers forming on his jaw coaxing out a shiver. And she absorbed his words—as she absorbed him—with a sense of satisfaction…then wonder…then trepidation. Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed down a gasp, her thighs tensing as she felt herself stretching to accommodate him.

“I’m not hurting you.” It was a question, but it held all the intensity of a command, as if by admitting any sort of tonal inflection, he could negate the very possibility of pain.

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