Cheyenne Hernandez

“Do it again," she whispered, tilting her head, offering her mouth to him.
Staring down at her swollen bottom lip, he gave it a little lick.
A small, soft moan sounded from the back of her throat.
"Ask nicely," he whispered.
"Please." She gave a lock of hair at his neck an impatient tug.
He came undone. Delving his tongue inside her sweet mouth, he walked her backward until her back met one of the pillars. With one hand cradling the back of her head for protection, his other hand held her hip immobilized, under his control. Rhythmically, he sank his tongue into her honeyed depths, mimicking the motion of making love.
She whimpered, the sound a desperate plea. Her fingers threaded through the damp hair at the base of his neck; her other hand clutched at his forearm.
He squeezed her hip, his long fingers digging into her soft bottom as he rocked her into his arousal.
For several moments, she ground her hips against him as he plundered her mouth. The kiss was no longer enough. He wanted to take her. Right here, right now. His fingertips trailed down the back of her neck to caress her shoulder, her arm, her breast. His breath hitched when she pushed herself more firmly into his hand. She wanted his touch. He complied of course: he would never deny her. Gently he kneaded her through the fabric of her dress, purposely passing his thumb over the hardened tip. She made a small sound of pleasure that nearly pushed him over the edge.
The manor, the rain, the mud disappeared. Reason and practicality were momentarily suspended. Nothing mattered in those moments. Nothing but the ever-escalating power of their passion.”
― Olivia Parker, To Wed a Wicked Earl