Scandalous Desires

Chapter Fourteen

Michael’s greatest enemy was his father.

Silence lay in bed late that night, sleepless and thinking of the things that Michael had told her over dinner. At the time, when he’d revealed what his father had done to him—had done to the mother Michael so obviously loved—she’d been too stunned, too sickened to ask anything more. They’d finished the dinner in near quiet. Now, as she lay staring sightlessly up at the dark canopy of her bed, questions and thoughts teemed in her mind. How could a mother let anyone, even a child’s father, do such horrible things to a boy? And once the child had defended himself, how could she take the part of the adult who cared so little for his soul?

She shivered in the dark. So much about Michael was explained by his terrible history. She’d wondered how a man could become so cynical, so devoid of common pity, and now she had her answer. Pity had been seared out of him by his monster of a father. Charlie Grady might bear scars on the outside of his body, but they were nothing to the scars that lay within Michael’s soul.

Yet now she realized there were questions she should’ve asked of him—what had he done all alone at the age of thirteen? What had become of his mother?

Well, she wouldn’t get any sleep tonight wondering and thinking. Silence turned her head and looked at the door that connected her room to Michael’s. A faint light shone under it.

Impulsively, she got up and tiptoed to the door. She pushed it open as quietly as possible. If he were already asleep…

Michael was sitting bare-chested in a huge honey-colored wood bed. He had some papers scattered about the coverlet and a candelabra on the table next to the bed to give him light.

He looked up as she entered.

For a moment he stared at her, frozen.

Then he set the paper he was holding down. “Silence.”

She bunched her chemise skirts in one hand nervously. “I have two questions to ask you.”

He nodded gravely. “What?”

He hadn’t invited her in, but she came forward anyway and perched in a chair near the bed. “What happened to you after you ran away from your father?”

He began to gather his papers together. “I did what any young boy does who finds himself alone in London. I worked.”

She waited.

He squared the edges of his papers and laid them on the table by his bed before looking back at her. “I ran away from St. Giles. I knew Charlie had survived the vitriol and while he lived he was a danger to me. So I begged for a bit and stole, as well, but it’s perilous for a lad by himself. There’s gangs o’ pickpockets and thieves who don’t like others poachin’ on their territory—not to mention the danger o’ bein’ caught. After a bit I made me way to the river and hired on to a wherryman, helpin’ him row and load and unload goods. That was durin’ the daytime. At night the wherryman and me stole what we could from the cargo ships.”

He was matter-of-fact as he relayed this dangerous life. Sitting as he was now—large and fully grown, a man aware not only of his strength, but of his ability to command other men—he looked like he could handle anything and anyone.

But he wouldn’t have been like this back then. Back when he was only a boy of thirteen. She knew about young boys—she’d spent the last year taking care of them. They were tough and reckless and yet at the same time so very sweet and vulnerable. Their cheeks were soft and their eyes apologized even as they fought to assert their independence with too smart mouths.

At that age Michael’s broad chest would have been narrow and thin, his arms long and skinny. He would’ve had the same brown eyes, but they probably would’ve dominated a thinner, more youthful face. She could almost see that phantom boy, lost and alone, determined to make his way by himself, because there was no one to help him.

Her heart nearly broke.

She inhaled. “Where did you live?”

He shrugged. “On the river. At night I’d sleep wherever I could find a place to lay me head. There’re houses where ye can rent a bed for a night or part o’ a night, but they can be dangerous for a young boy, too. Often I slept on the boat if the weather was fair.”

She watched him. He sat like a king in that great bed, his olive skin shining as if burnished in the candlelight. The coverlet was bunched carelessly at his hips and for the first time she wondered if he wore anything beneath the sheet.

Hastily she raised her eyes. “And then?”

“And then one night me master and me were set upon by a bigger crew o’ river thieves. We were beaten and the haul we’d taken that night stolen from us. And I knew then, as I crawled into a corner to lick me wounds, that I couldn’t survive as I was.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He held out his hands in front of him, palms up, weighing his long ago choice. “I could be a wolf or a rabbit, it was that simple. I chose to be a wolf. The next night I went to the crew who’d attacked us and offered me services. They beat me again, jus’ to show me that I was at the bottom o’ their pack, but I began to raid with them.”

He held her gaze and closed both hands into fists. “And when I was stronger, when I was no longer at the bottom and had learned to use a knife, I challenged the leader o’ the gang and beat him so badly he never walked straight again. I was fifteen and the leader o’ that river crew then.”

He lowered his fists to the coverlet and looked at them. “In another couple o’ years I was the most feared river pirate on the Thames. I moved me crew to St. Giles and met up with Charlie again. He’d recovered from the burns to his face, but he wasn’t nearly at his peak. I could’ve killed him then, but I didn’t.”

“Why not?” Silence whispered.

He looked up at her, but she knew it wasn’t her he was seeing. His dark eyes were haunted. “She… she begged me. I hadn’t seen her for seven years and she got on her knees to beg for his worthless life.”

Silence drew in her breath. What must he have felt to see his mother on her knees begging for the life of the man who had abused her—had abused Michael?

“I let him go, more fool I, because of her, and he went and made his home in Whitechapel, schemin’, plannin’, buildin’ his power until he became the Vicar o’ Whitechapel.” Michael shook his head as if disgusted. “I should’ve squashed him like a bug.”

“Your mother would never have forgiven you,” Silence said and she wanted to weep for him.

He looked up. “She never forgave me anyway. I never saw her again alive.”

“You tried to?” she asked gently.

He snorted bitterly. “Many a time. He wouldn’t let me near her and I knew ’twould only bring her trouble if’n I saw her in secret. She loved that bastard until the end.”

She’d loved Charlie more than her own son. Michael didn’t say the words, but Silence knew he thought them.

She looked down at her hands and found that she’d squeezed her chemise into hopeless wrinkles in her fists. Carefully she opened her hands and smoothed the fabric.

“When did she die, your mother?”

“Four weeks ago.”

Her head jerked up. “That recently?”

He nodded. “It’s why I had to bring Mary and you to the palace. Once me mam was gone, there was nothin’ to hold him back from makin’ me pay. I knew he’d try and draw his blood price from anyone close to me, particularly a woman. He’s always liked hurtin’ lasses.”

“Your mother held Charlie Grady back from attacking you?”

He looked away and nodded.

She held out her hands urgently. “Then she did care for you, didn’t she?”

He glanced back at her, his eyes raw.

“She must’ve,” Silence whispered. “Even if she never saw you, she still loved you enough to keep your father from hurting you again.”

He shook his head, and she could see that he was having trouble believing her. It would be hard, after a lifetime of seeing only one truth, to open oneself to another.

His deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “You said you had two questions.”

She looked up and saw that he was watching her intently, his black eyes hooded. She felt her face heat. Had he known what she was thinking?

“Yes.” She clasped her hands together in her lap, trying to look calm. This was important. How he answered might change everything. “Why did you tell me all this?”

He blinked as if the question wasn’t the one he’d been expecting. One corner of his wide sensuous mouth curved up ever so slightly. “Oh, love, I think ye know the answer to that one well enough.”

Did he mean what she thought he meant? That he wanted her to know about him? Wanted to let her into his life? Her breath caught on the possibility. On the hope that he wanted from her what she wanted from him.

And while she thought, he got up from the bed and answered the question she’d asked only in her mind.

No, he wasn’t wearing anything at all.

He was tall and broad and everything that was male, from the mounded muscles of his shoulders to the faint black hairs on his feet. And he was proudly erect.

“Now, I have a question for ye,” he drawled, low and thrillingly dangerous. “Will ye be comin’ to me bed tonight, Silence Hollingbrook?”

Silence lifted her chin, refusing to back away as Michael prowled closer, large, naked, and dauntingly male. “Yes.”

He cocked his head as if unsure that he’d heard right. “Yes, what?”

She swallowed. He was an arms-length away from her now and she could feel his heat. Could feel the responding excitement within herself. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

With one stride he was next to her, overwhelming in his nudity. “Be sure, Silence, mine. Once I take ye to me bed, I won’t be stoppin’ if ye have any sudden maidenly qualms. Right now I’ll let ye walk through that door and away. In a minute more, I’ll not.”

She reached out and did what she’d been wanting to do for weeks—she laid her palm against his naked chest. His skin was smooth and so hot she felt as if he’d branded her hand. She’d carry the mark of his flesh forever. “I may have qualms, but they aren’t maidenly, I assure you. I want this.”

The sound that came from his lips was very close to a growl as he moved swiftly and decisively. Silence found herself suddenly lifted in strong arms as Michael bore her to his big bed.

He laid her down on the soft mattress and placed a knee on the bed. Then he stilled, the muscles on his shoulders bunched and ready. He seemed to restrain himself with effort. “Am I frightenin’ ye?”

She shook her head slowly, her heart contracting at the fierce worry in his eyes. “Only in the best of ways.”

He closed his eyes and she saw that his big body was trembling. He gripped the coverlet in both fists. “Ye must tell me if anythin’ I do frightens ye. I don’t want to hurt ye. I—”

She placed her fingertips against his lips and he froze. His black eyes snapped open and he watched her, wild and dangerous.

But not to her.

Never to her. She didn’t know how she knew this, but somehow, deep in her bones, she knew now that Michael O’Connor would never hurt her physically. He might hurt her emotionally, but even that wouldn’t be on purpose. One couldn’t blame the animal for the instincts he was born with.

The thought was a little sad, so she banished it and focused on the man beneath her fingers instead.

His lips were soft. She rubbed them lightly and they parted to lick at her fingertips. She smiled and let her hands drift over his jaw, rough with a day’s growth of beard. He was very still, watching her with waiting eyes. She stroked down his neck, feeling the cords of his tendons, and over to her favorite part: his smooth chest. She flattened her hand there and pressed. The muscles of his chest were hard and strong and gave very little. Curious, she scooted closer on her back, putting herself almost under him, so that she could touch him with both hands. Why he stayed so motionless and simply let her explore, she did not know, but she was grateful. She’d always been indecently interested in what lay beneath a man’s clothes. William had been a very modest man, so her curiosity had not been assuaged.

Here, now, though, Michael seemed willing to let her explore as much as she wanted. And she was determined at last to discover all she could about this man—in both body and mind.

She smoothed her hands up to his shoulders, shaping the sloping muscles that led to his neck. Women didn’t have such muscles and she found it fascinating. She trailed her hands down his upper arms—and then laughed in delight when he flexed them beneath her palms, the bulges of his muscles moving under her hands.

His expression didn’t change, but somehow his eyes laughed, too, a great predator, indulgent.

She peeked up at him from underneath her eyelashes as her hands touched his wrists. How far would he let her explore?

She trailed her fingers over his ribcage. A swirl of black hair circled his navel and she traced it, amazed that men should have such hair where women did not. She glanced up and saw his eyes were nearly feral now, watching her with half-lowered lids. His look made her breath quicken.

Hastily she lowered her gaze again. Below his navel the hair narrowed to a line that led to the inky curls around his penis. She followed the line with her fingertips, her mouth going dry at her daring. The fine curls wrapped themselves around her fingers as if drawing her in. He rose strong and hard in the space between her hands, but she didn’t touch him yet. Instead she fingered the lean lines of his hips, returning again and again to the center of his manhood, drawing out the anticipation. His breathing had roughened as she played and she thought she heard a low growl.

Only then did she bring her hands together and cradle the prize she found there. She smiled as she held Michael O’Connor’s cock. Oh, it had been so very long and holding a man’s cock was a wonderful thing. He was soft like a fine kid glove, but if she gave a little squeeze, the flesh beneath was hard as a rock. Her fingers didn’t quite wrap around him as she circled him and something feminine inside her quaked. This part of him would be inside her body soon, large and foreign and male.

She inhaled and delicately traced the head of his penis. His foreskin was pulled back, the glistening, swollen head entirely free. At the very tip was a drop of clear liquid and she caught it on her fingertip, bringing it to her mouth to see what a man tasted like.

At her gesture Michael cursed and caught her hand, falling suddenly atop her.

She stared up at him wondering what bedchamber faux pas she’d committed.

He groaned at her look. “I’ll let ye pet and play all ye want—after. Now I need”—he pushed her chemise to her waist, parted her thighs, and settled between them—“to be inside ye.”

There was a flag of red in his cheeks and his mouth had turned dangerous. She could feel his hard cock prodding insistently against her thigh.

He reached between them and touched her, probing and parting her folds. Her eyes widened, watching him as he watched her and touched her where no one else had put a hand save she herself. Her face was hot, she wanted to look away, and she knew she was already embarrassingly, naively moist. Was this what sophisticates did in the bedchamber? She had certainly never done this in her marriage. Did his other women take this type of touch in stride, perhaps with a knowing smile?

The thought of his other women made her mouth tremble and he misunderstood.

“Have I hurt ye?” he asked, his voice like gravel.

He took his hand away and turned with her so that all at once she found herself laying on top of him, her face only inches from his.

He scowled at her. “Ye must tell me if I’m too rough, if I hurt ye. Damn it! I had no intention o’ causin’ ye pain, m’love.”

“Shh!” She pressed her palm to his mouth to stop the fast, angry voice. “You did not hurt me.”

“Then why did ye frown?” he demanded.

“I…” She lowered her gaze. How could she be having this conversation? She with her chemise rucked up, her wet sex against his hairy thigh and his erection still pressed to her belly? This was a mad dream.

“I’m not used to this sort of lovemaking,” she said in a rush before she could think better of the words.

He was quiet for a moment. Then she felt his hand on her chin as he tilted up her head to meet her eyes. His mouth was still hard and dangerous, his face drawn into even more severe lines if that were possible, but his words were quiet if not soft. “Forgive me for a thoughtless lout. Truth be told, I’m not exactly used to this kind o’ bedsport, either.”

Her brows drew together. He’d had many lovers. “But—”

“Hush.” He placed his own far bigger palm over her mouth. “Let me…”

He gripped her bottom with one hand and drew her legs up on either side of his hips, spreading them wide. In this position his cock was pressed intimately against her folds.

“Oh!” Her exclamation was muffled behind his hand, but since her mouth was open anyway, she stuck the tip of her tongue out and tasted him.

He hissed. “Brat.”

She wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought that might be a compliment.

He took his hand away and caught her hips in both hands, arching beneath her. The movement drove his cock over her, rubbing the peak of her sex.

The sensation was exquisite and before she could control herself she’d made a needy, moaning sound.

He grinned, though his face was strained. “That’s it, love. Use me to make yerself feel good.”

She flushed. Surely he didn’t mean—?

But he moved again and she lost all thought. He was driving her wild, driving her into some kind of madness. He helped her to sit up and brace her hands on his chest and she found herself moving against him in a sensual haze. His big penis was against her folds, slick with her wetness, and he moved deliberately, knowingly, making her excitement spiral higher. Surely this wasn’t right. It must be some sort of sin for it to feel this good, but at the moment she simply didn’t care. She bit her lip and ground against him as he held her bottom in his hot hands, and—

And suddenly she was there, racing past the point, flying with dizzying speed. She gasped, her head falling forward, her body convulsing once, twice, three times in quick succession with impossible pleasure.

She opened her eyes, dazed, and saw him watching her with the most satisfied male look she’d ever seen. But his mouth was drawn as well and she realized that his swollen cock was still ragingly hard between her folds.

Sweat was beaded on his upper lip. “My turn.” He lifted her and grunted. “Put me there.”

Her eyes widened and she reached between them. He was hot and wet with her moisture and he was also so very large. She took one look at his face and knew she must at least try though. She moved him, brushing the head of his penis through her sex.

They both gasped.

She found the right spot and guided him before letting go.

He groaned, loud and male, his eyes turned to feral slits.

She swallowed and tilted her hips, feeling the head of his cock breech her. There was no pain, but she felt a stretching at her opening.

“Michael!” she panted.

“Jaysus,” he breathed. His head was arched back, his neck taut with strain.

She bore down, swiveling her hips a little.

He closed his eyes, his mouth open, his nostrils flared.

She pulled back just a fraction and he flinched and flexed his hands on her bottom. She hastily came back down again, watching him as another inch of his length entered her. He looked almost like he was in pain and she felt a sudden power—only she could ease this ache he felt.

She leaned down and brushed her lips gently over his jaw, pushing back with her bottom, taking more of him within her body.

He whispered something under his breath and she sat back, bearing down, gasping, taking the entire length of his cock. She felt stuffed full, her tissues stretched wide over the base of him. He was still, panting, groaning every now and then, his hands twitching convulsively on her buttocks.

Carefully, slowly, she rose on her knees, his cock pulling as it slid from her warmth.

She lowered herself, inching him back inside and he swallowed, his strong throat working. He was such a beautiful man—and he was all hers.

Perhaps she was doing it wrong. Perhaps he really was in pain. She leaned down and brushed a soft, nearly chaste kiss over his lips.

It was as if she’d put spur to him. His tongue was in her mouth, his hips arching off the bed and his hands holding her down as he drove his length into her again and again. His passion was intense, nearly overwhelming and she hung on, determined to ride him out. Determined to bring him as much pleasure as he’d brought her.

Suddenly he pulled from her kiss, his teeth gritted, his head arched back, and he shouted. At the same time she felt the scald of his semen rushing into her.

Silence watched in wonder. She’d never before seen this moment. It was as if he was possessed by a demon or perhaps an angel—some otherworldly being come to give both unbearable pain and exquisite pleasure. Maybe one and the same.

Gently she brushed kisses over his damp face, luxuriating in the intimacy of the moment as he recovered.

Finally his hand rose and he stroked her back with fingers as light as a butterfly. His touch seemed so tender, so loving almost, that it brought tears to her eyes.

Michael looked at her.

She blinked. She was still astride him, his penis inside her, though she could feel it retreating. What did sophisticates do now?

“Come here,” he growled, and pulled her down on top of him.

“I-I should go to my own bed,” she protested feebly. “I’m too heavy on you.”

“No,” was all he said in reply. He wrapped one arm across her bottom and flung the other over his head.

She laid her head on his chest. It was amazingly comfortable to lie on a man. He was warm and she could hear his heartbeat, strong and steady.

For a while she listened as his breathing grew deeper and his heartbeat slower. She’d always enjoyed sharing a bed with William, but what they’d done there had never produced the kind of excitement that Michael had given her. Making love with him was wonderful and wild and very, very pleasurable. Everything and more than she’d dreamed.

Which was why it seemed so strange when she began to cry a half hour later.

Her brown eyes swam with tears, overflowing, splashing down, scalding his hands, his face, drowning him in salty sorrow. Mam wept as Charlie stood over her, berating her, beating her with words and fists, and Mick was too small and weak to stop him.

But then Charlie faded and she lifted her head. Mick saw that it was Silence who wept and he could do nothing to comfort her, to console her terrible, unrelenting grief. For he had been the bringer of evil and death, the wellspring of her salt tears. He’d grasped with greedy hands and in so doing had crushed the very thing he’d sought to hold.

But hold her, he would. She was his, weeping or not, grief-stricken or not. And if he could not comfort her perhaps her hot tears would scald away the poison in his suppurating soul…

Mick woke from the nightmare, his body slick with sweat, and for a moment thought he still dreamed.

He could hear Silence weeping.

Weeping after he’d made love to her.

If he’d had a heart it would’ve contracted in pain then. But since he had no such organ, he reached for her. She was in his bed, finally, and he could not regret it. If he was incapable of love or comfort, so be it. But he could at least hold his woman and feel her tears on his face.

Share in her pain.

“What is it, me darlin’?” he asked, his voice rasping with sleep—or perhaps some new emotion.

She stiffened as he touched her, hunching her shoulder, but he gave no clemency. He was a pirate, after all, and what he took he held and she was his now—whether she knew it yet or not.

He pulled her into his arms. “Sweet Silence, tell me.”

Her body relaxed all at once, as if she conceded defeat. “I lied. All this time, I lied.”

He had no idea what she meant, but he made soothing noises at the back of his throat and kissed her neck. “What d’ye mean?”

When she shook her head again and didn’t answer, he gently turned her face so he could see her.

The sight sent a bolt of iron through his middle. It was just like in his dreams, her hazel eyes bright with crystal tears, her cheeks wet and reddened. “Dearest one.”

She hiccupped and said, “I said William and I had true love. That our marriage was perfect, but oh, Michael, it wasn’t.”

He sighed and laid his cheek against hers. Of course her marriage hadn’t been perfect. Her husband, from the sound of it, had been a stuffy sod. But he was also a dead stuffy sod. He knew well enough that mourning had nothing to do with how kind or unkind the person had been while alive.

“I just… just wanted to have a perfect marriage, I think,” she whispered, and he could feel the tremble in her voice as she said it. “He was away so much and I was always waiting for him… it was like we never truly settled into everyday married life. And when something difficult came up…” She sighed forlornly. “We didn’t know what to do. How to talk to one another.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair.

“And doing this…,” her voice squeaked, “this between you and me… I guess it just made me realize that William and I were truly over. Our marriage, our life. I can’t even lie to myself that it was perfect anymore.”

He stroked her back, waiting.

She lifted her head, her beautiful eyes still shining. “You must think me so foolish.”

He smiled at her tenderly, for she made something in his chest squeeze. “Nay, love. I jus’ think ye’ve a soft heart, and I cannot be displeased with that.”

She smiled, though her lips trembled.

He threaded his fingers through her fine brown hair. So lovely it was. “And I’m that sorry the memories give ye pain, but I’m afraid I’m not sorry for what we did here.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “But I’m not sorry.”

“I’m that glad to hear it,” he murmured, running his mouth over the corner of her lips.

She gasped and then opened her mouth shyly, and he never hesitated. He kissed her deep, thrusting his tongue into her warmth, tasting the dregs of her sorrow.

He didn’t particularly like the memories of another man in her thoughts, but he figured he knew of a way to drive them from her mind. Turning her, Mick pulled her close until her plump arse rested against his loins. His rod was already stiff and hard. He wrapped his upper arm over her shoulders and scooped one luscious breast into the palm of his hand.

He’d not had time to properly appreciate her lovely titties earlier—his lust had been near out of control once she’d shown her willingness. In the daylight he’d strip her naked and examine his new prize, but here in the dark he merely held her. He weighed her softness—her plump breast fit his palm perfectly. Her breath caught and her nipple was pointed and eager. He thumbed it, flicking it gently through the lawn of her chemise, feeling her body quiver against his.

He played leisurely, lazily with her nipples for a few minutes and then his hand stole lower. Her chemise was tangled high about her thighs, which served his purpose well. He laid his palm over her cleft. This was his now, a private garden of delight open only to him. Her breath hitched again as he delved his fingers into her honeyed slit. She wept here, as well, and the discovery was gratifying. This at least he could do for her. He found that tender bud at the apex of her cunny and delicately slipped a fingertip around it, not quite touching the little peak, teasing instead. Around and around his finger slid, until she sighed restlessly and moaned his name—Michael—the only one who called him so.

But he allowed it, for she was a fair prize, this soft-hearted woman. And if she were his woman, well then, he supposed in a way he must be her man.

“Hush, darlin’.” He tongued the back of her neck tasting salt and womanly allure.

She bumped her hips demandingly into his and he chuckled low. At last he touched her where she wanted his fingertips. He pressed firmly, rubbing and circling until a high wail came from her throat. The sound was a balm to his blasted soul.

She would’ve jerked away then, but he was having none of it. He anchored her hip and tethered her in the most basic way possible. He lifted her upper leg, draping it over his own hips, and thrust into her warm, welcoming wetness.

Then he went back to playing. He bit at her shoulder as he stroked her pretty cunny, his own body still. He had what he wanted: her pinned to him, unable to escape. He slid his fingers through her sweet folds until he touched the base of his own flesh where it met hers. His cock was buried within her body as his hand played upon her delicate flesh. She moaned low and he licked where he’d bitten her shoulder, then moved to catch her earlobe. She tried to rub against him, but he was stronger and he easily held her still.

Fingering. Softly tapping.

She was swollen now, his hand drenched with her readiness. He could feel her flexing about his rod and the sensation was an exquisite torture. He treasured her, treasured her tears, treasured her love for others. Her heart might even be big enough to fill that empty space in his own chest. Perhaps she could be his heart as well.

“Michael,” she whispered, a siren unaware of her song.

“Yes, love?”

“Michael, please.”

“Turn yer head to me, love.”

She did and he devoured her mouth, licking salt tears from her lips, thrusting his tongue deep within, a pirate demanding tithe.

She arched and he could no longer hold himself back. He flexed his hips and drove deep within her, holding her cunny in the palm of his hand. He speared within her clenching valley, plundering all that was sweet in her. She opened her mouth wide in a silent scream and his release caught him, hard and fast as he kissed her openmouthed. He tore his mouth from hers and shouted his triumph. She was his, now and forevermore, until the end of time, until the seas ran dry and man no longer roamed the earth, amen.

His and only his.

She slumped against him, the scent of their passion musky in the night air.

“Sleep,” he murmured to her, and held her against himself, his cock still buried deep.

She was caught and he had no intention of ever letting her go.