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Adam drew her closer and kissed the corner of her mouth, then bit on her lower lip. “Pardon my uncivilized speech. But my brain ceases to function when I see you like this… Or see you at all.”

“Oh.” Now that was romantic. Not the flowery speech she was used to from books, but the real thing sounded sweeter to her ears.

She leaned in and kissed him.

His hot tongue invaded her mouth only to retreat again and come with renewed vigor. His hips rocked against her with every thrust of his tongue.

He undid the buttons of her shirt and spread the fabric aside, baring her breasts. Then his hands were cradling her globes, weighing them in his hands, his thumbs caressing her nipples.

Beatrice arched her back, craving more touch as she rubbed against him with every inch of her body.

“Kiss me,” she breathed.

He took her mouth with his and plundered her savagely. She turned her head, giving him the side of her neck, then leaned back, so he could roam her chest with his tongue.

“Lower,” she commanded. Thrusting her fingers in his hair, she tugged him to where she wanted him, with his mouth over her breast.

He sucked in, his tongue tracing her dark areola and Beatrice moaned. His mouth kept kissing, licking, and sucking on her breasts, driving her mad, as his hips rocked against her, rubbing his cock against her center.

“I want you, Beatrice,” he whispered, his eyes dark with passion.

“Take me,” she whimpered, and she meant every word.

In one quick motion, he pressed her closer to his body and whirled around, sitting her on the chair and hovering above her. His knuckles white as he gripped the arms of the chair tightly, his face only inches away from her, but no part of his body touching her.

“You have to be careful when you say such things,” he whispered.

“W-what things?”

“Asking me to take you.” His gaze slowly drifted down her body.

“But I want to.”

He tsked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t imagine how many nights I lay in my bed dreaming about you. Thinking about the things I want to do to you.”

Oh.

Beatrice lacked words. He dreamed of her?

He took her hand and pressed it against the tent in his breeches, the warmth of his cock burning her palm even through the buckskin fabric.

“How many nights I stroke myself to the vision of you.”

Beatrice’s breath hitched, and her skin turned scalding hot.

“W-what do you imagine when you stroke yourself?” she whispered, surprised at her own brazen words. But she wanted to know.

She wanted the confirmation of his dreams, his wants. She wanted to know that the dreams of her drove him to pleasuring himself in the darkness of the night. And oddly, she wished she could see it.

His gaze met hers, burning with hunger. “I imagine your naked body in front of me. Your supple breasts in my hands as I rub your succulent nipples.”

Beatrice moaned, her back arching, her hard nipples rubbing against the fabric of the shirt. He hadn’t even touched her yet. Just his words were driving her wild.

And then he touched her. But not where she wanted him to touch her. He started carefully and slowly undoing the falls of her breeches. He barely made any contact with her skin, but every time the fabric touched her skin, she writhed from sweet agony.

He dragged her breeches down and the drawers that she wore underneath, leaving her in her stockings and a masculine shirt. Then he stood back, watching her with his predatory gaze, assessing every inch of her.

“You know what I imagine when I stroke myself?” he asked, putting his hand on the bulge in his breeches.