“Picnics,” she said, her expression delightfully outraged, “with my dolls.”
He took off his coat and laid it like a blanket on the grass. The ground was softly sloped, which he would imagine would be more comfortable for her than horizontal.
He looked at her. He looked at the coat. She didn’t move.
“You,” she said.
“Lie down,” she ordered.
He did. With alacrity.
And then, before he’d had time to make a comment, to tease or cajole, or even really to breathe, she’d straddled him.
“Oh, dear G—” he gasped, but he couldn’t finish. She was kissing him now, her mouth hot and hungry and aggressive. It was all deliciously familiar—he loved knowing every little bit of her, from the slope of her breast to the rhythm of her kisses—and yet this time, she felt a little…
One of his hands moved to the back of her head. At home he liked to pull the pins out one by one, watching each lock tumble from her coiffure. But today he was too needy, too urgent, and he didn’t have patience for—
“What was that for?” he asked. She had yanked his hand away.
Her eyes narrowed languidly. “I’m in charge,” she whispered.
His body tightened. More. Dear God, she was going to kill him.
“Don’t go slow,” he gasped.
But he didn’t think she was listening. She was taking her time, undoing his breeches, letting her hands flutter along his belly until she found him.
One finger. That’s all she gave him. One featherlight finger along his shaft.
She turned, looked at him. “This is fun,” she remarked.
He just focused on trying to breathe.
“I love you,” she said softly, and he felt her rise. She hoisted her skirts to her thighs as she positioned herself, then, with one spectacularly swift stroke, she took him within her, her body coming to rest against his, leaving him embedded to the hilt.
He wanted to move then. He wanted to thrust up, or flip her over and pound until they were both nothing but dust, but her hands were firm on his h
ips, and when he looked up at her, her eyes were closed, and she almost looked as if she were concentrating.
Her breathing was slow and steady, but it was loud, too, and with each exhale she seemed to bear down on him just a little bit more heavily.
“Frannie,” he groaned, because he didn’t know what else to do. He wanted her to move faster. Or harder. Or something, but all she did was rock back and forth, her hips arching and curving in delicious torment. He clutched her hips, intending to move her up and down, but she opened her eyes and shook her head with a soft, blissful smile.
“I like it this way,” she said.
He wanted something different. He needed something different, but when she looked down at him, she looked so damned happy that he could deny her nothing. And then, sure enough, she began to shudder, and it was strange, because he knew the feel of her climax so well, and yet this time it seemed softer…and stronger, at the same time.
She swayed, and she rocked, then she let out a little scream and sagged against him.
And, to his utter and complete surprise, he came. He hadn’t thought he was ready. He hadn’t thought he was remotely near climax, not that it would have taken long had he been able to move beneath her. But then, without warning, he had simply exploded.