Page 53 of Cocky August Rake

Rose’s hands were in his hair now, threading her fingers through the thick strands.

She had allowed him to believe this was entirely for her. Now, with his hands holding her so carefully and his mouth exploring lower, she could scarcely remember why it wasn’t.

Hold fast, Rose…

She deliberately loosened her grip on his hair and forced her breaths to slow.

He looked up at her then, still on his knees. “Tell me what you like.”

There was something not quite innocent in his expression. Not uncertainty, precisely, but an intentness—as though every sound she made mattered. As though he had never done this before but meant to learn it properly now.

The thought was absurd.

He had spent years traveling from port to port. Women would have noticed him everywhere he went. Wanted him. There would have been taverns, willing widows, brothels in every harbor.

But he despised brothels.

And yet the garden returned to her again. His startled pleasure. His shame afterward. Her heart squeezed, leaving a strange, soft ache.

Then his tongue touched her, and thought became impossible.

Rose’s breath caught hard.

Just a light stroke along her slit.

“This?” he asked.

“Yes.” She barely managed the word.

He did it again.

Slower.

Her head tipped back and her eyes closed.

This was pleasure so sharp she forgot the room, the house, the reason she had brought him here. She had meant to draw him in. To make him helpless with wanting her.

Instead, she was the one gripping his hair.

The one trembling in his hands.

“Again,” she begged.

More pressure. Slower.

Rose had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

He was not practiced. But he listened.

When she tugged at his hair, he pressed closer. When her thighs shook, he held her more firmly.

There was no shame in him now.

He was willing. Wanting.

“My lord.”

He made a rough sound and kissed her again. The scrape of his unshaven jaw brushing tender skin sent a shock through her. So fierce she couldn’t help but jerk her hips forward.