Page 54 of Cold November Rake

His hand found her hair, his fingers threading through the loose waves at her temples, his palm cradling the back of her head.

His other hand moved to cover hers where it held him through the fabric.

He adjusted her grip, his fingers tightening around hers, increasing the pressure just enough to make him hiss through his teeth, and Temperance felt the pulse of him against her palm.

"Like that," he murmured, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it. "Just like that."

She followed his lead, finding the rhythm he wanted, the pressure, the steady stroke from base to tip that made his breath hitch and his hips push forward into her grip.

Temperance's own arousal had built to a throbbing ache low in her body, responding to the act of touching him with an intensity that startled her.

"Edward," she breathed.

"Yes, mo chridhe?" The answer was instinctive.

She suspected he didn't mean to use the endearment, that it was only the heat of the moment, but she let the words wash over her, letting herself hope that he had meant it.

A dull pang of longing tugged at her heart.

"I want to touch you," she whispered. "Without the clothes."

He glanced down at her, surprised.

Then a slow smile split his lips. He took a step back and quickly discarded his breeches.

The next moment he was standing between her thighs again, his cock, hard and swollen, jumping in excitement.

For a moment she just stared at it. It was large, dark red, tiny veins mapping its length.

Tentatively, she reached out and circled her fingers around it.

She let out a moan just as he groaned, their voices mingling in the still night air.

His hand tightened around hers, squeezing, pulling, pumping his length.

"Run your thumb over the top," Sutton murmured.

Temperance obeyed. Her thumb swept across the head of him, and she felt it—a bead of moisture, slick and hot against her skin. In the same moment, warmth seeped between her thighs.

"Yes," he rasped. "Oh, God, yes."

His hands left her hair, left her hand where it held him. They moved to her knees instead, his palms settling on the insides of her thighs with a gentleness that belied the strength in his fingers. "Let me," he said, and it was not quite a question.

He eased her back onto the mattress, pushed the nightgown up to her waist, and parted her knees wider. Slowly. Deliberately.

She was exposed to him now—the wet evidence of her desire glistening in the candlelight, the flushed flesh between her thighs laid bare to his gaze.

The heat in her cheeks intensified, her body burning with embarrassment.

One hand on his shaft, he pressed it against her wet center, his other hand digging into her hip.

His eyes met hers. In the candlelight his irises were nearly black, the pupils blown wide with want, and the look he gave her was stripped of everything except a naked, trembling hunger.

He sank into her with a single, steady thrust.

The sensation tore a gasp from Temperance's throat—surprise tangled with relief, the sound raw and unbidden. He filled her completely, the thickness of him stretching her, the heat of him racing through every nerve ending, and for a moment she could not breathe, could not think, could do nothing but feel the impossible rightness of his body inside hers.

His breath came in short, sharp pants, his chest heaving.