Hannibal Rising by Jon Sharpe

riding outfit. She moaned, and color crept up her face.
    “Not so rough. That almost hurt.”
    “Did it?” Fargo said, and cupped her other mound. He squeezed just as hard and pulled her close, mashing his mouth against hers, delving his tongue into her mouth.
    Cooing softly in her throat, Charlotte melted against him. Her hands rose and linked behind his neck. Her knee rose up and down. “Do me,” she breathed into his ear.
    Fargo had every intention. Bending, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the four-poster bed. He didn’t set her down; he threw her onto her back hard enough to cause the canopy to shake.
    “I’m not a sack of flour, you know.”
    Fargo got on the bed on his knees and pushed her legs apart and hitched at his belt.
    “Hold on. I like to work up to it. Aren’t we going to kiss and fondle some first?”
    Taking her hand, Fargo placed it on his hardening manhood. “You need something to fondle, fondle this.”
    “Oh my.” Charlotte’s eyes widened and acquired a hungry cast. “You’re a big one, aren’t you?” She ran her palm up and down. “Goodness. No wonder the ladies like you so much.”
    Fargo kissed her to shut her up. He pried at her buttons and stays and soon had her jacket undone and her blouse opened, exposing her mounds. They were full and firm, her nipples like tacks. He pinched one and then the other and she squirmed under him.
    “I said not to be so rough.”
    Fargo inhaled a nipple. He nipped it then bit it and he wasn’t gentle, neither. She squirmed and sucked in her breath, then pushed on his chest and hiked her hand as if to slap him.
    “Damn it. I won’t tell you again. You’re making me mad. Be gentle or get out.”
    Gripping her wrists, Fargo pinned them on the quilt. He kissed her lips, her throat, her ear. He bit the lobe and she stifled an outcry and tried to pull free.
    “That was the last straw! Let go of me.”
    Fargo nuzzled her neck and roved the tip of his tongue over one breast and then the other.
    “Didn’t you hear me?”
    Letting go of her left wrist, Fargo dipped his hand low over her skirt. She pushed against his shoulders, although not with much force. He looked at her and smiled. “You little bitch.”
    “What did you just call me?”
    By then Fargo’s hand was up and under. Her cotton drawers had a tie. A flick, and he was where he wanted to be. “I called you what you are,” he said, and cupped her nether mound.
    “Oh! Oh God.”
    Fargo parted her nether lips with the tip of his finger and rubbed her tiny knob, eliciting a moan. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders so deep it hurt.
    “Like that, do you?” Fargo said, and lanced a finger up into her.
    Charlotte arched up off the bed, then slowly sank back. She ground her hips to meet this thrusts and uttered tiny bleats of pleasure.
    Fargo inserted a second finger. The bed was moving under them, the quilt bunching about their legs. With his other hand he undid his belt buckle and tugged at his pants.
    “God, I love that. Don’t stop.”
    Spreading her legs, Fargo positioned himself. In a deft move he slid his fingers out, aligned his pole, and impaled her to the hilt. He thrust deep and thrust hard, his knees rocking like steam engine pistons, his mouth on her throat and her breasts.
    “Ah! Ah! Ah!” Charlotte cried out, and bit her lip. She gripped his sides and said, “Slower. Go slower.”
    Fargo did the opposite. He went faster, ramming into her again and again.
    Breathing noisily through her nose, Charlotte raised her legs and locked her ankles behind his back.
    “Damn you.”
    “Not much longer,” Fargo said.
    “No. Don’t you dare. Let me first. If you do and peter out on me I might not.”
    Fargo almost said it would serve her right. Gripping her hips, he shut everything from his mind except the exquisite feel of her velvet tunnel. Usually he liked to take longer. Not this time. She clawed and bucked and the next thing Fargo knew he was on the cusp. He