Untamable Rogue (Formerly: A Christmas Baby) by Annette Blair Page A

you’re doing to me?” he asked.
    “Perhaps,” she said. “Is it good? Am I doing good?”
    “It’s very good.” A beginning, he thought and slid his hand slowly up her leg, waiting for her to stop him, though she never did. He stroked near her center, caught a throat-squeak of appreciation, stroked closer. She gasped, inviting him with a single hissed breath.
    He found her nether lips, stroked them, all the while she worked him, slow and easy enough to make him burst. He turned his attention her way, knew by her reaction when he found her perfect center, worked her with the same easy rhythm she worked him, until she indicated she wanted more and faster.
    Again she initiated a kiss, open-mouthed and hungry, and her tongue met his for the first time. She reached the stars then, like a cataclysm, with a scream and a gasp of shock, and then she whimpered and rolled into him, as if she had done something terrible. He soothed her and called her his own, and asked her to let him do it again, which made her regard him with wonder.
    “Let me,” he said. “You liked it.”
    She nodded and he touched her again, tried to go slow but they’d started from a higher plane and she reached her peak fast, then he lowered her and called her beautiful and gave her release two more incredible times.
    “No more,” she finally said. “No more. I cannot anymore, er, no more. It’ll kill me.” She rolled to her side, away from him, likely embarrassed of a sudden by her hearty reaction.
    Ash chuckled and curled up behind her to hold her close, him throbbing so hard ‘twas a wonder he hadn’t spilled all over her.
    She looked back, likely distracted by his urgency, by his … knocking at her door, so to speak, because she looked him full in the face and furrowed her brow. “Ash, is there something more to this, for I could swear that your manhood is prodding me to action.”

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    Ash felt his face warm for the first time in twenty years. Not since a randy fourteen-year-old, invited to the hayloft by a world-wise maid, had he felt so uncomfortably embarrassed over the evidence of his arousal. “‘Tis only me, that ugly man part of me, that’s all, wanting attention too. Ignore it, it’ll go away.”
    “Did I not give it enough attention? What more does it want?” she asked even as she slipped a hand between them to pet his excited man part as if ‘twere a docile kitten. And before Ash could answer, she took him in her hand again, as she had been doing while focused on her own pleasure, and she began to focus on his.
    Ash groaned at the amazing amount of gratification her inexperienced hands wrought, more than he had ever experienced at the hands of even the most practiced of women. Then again, this was Larkin Rose, his own guttersnipe bride, pleasuring him. At the notion, his ecstasy increased and multiplied. Praise be, she was awake now and knew what she was about, more or less. At least she now freely gave the rapture consuming him, which made her touch the more spectacular.
    “Teach me what to do,” she said, leaning over him, her breasts there for his eyes to feast upon, her nipples budding and waiting for his tongue, her offer nearly enough to bring him to culmination. Ash groaned, amazed, so grateful for her determination to gratify his sexual needs that he took her up on her offer and showed his bride how to pleasure him.
    When his brilliant pupil exceeded his expectations, Ash took that budding breast into his mouth, and placed his hand at the junction of her thighs to stroke her essence in an effort to raise her with him, and so he did—so they both did—to unimagined heights. And when his bride shuddered and cried his name—Ash spilled his seed in a culmination that rocked his world.
    A damned good beginning, and then some, he thought, which boded well for a consummation and marriage that might prove better than he dreamed. Sated and hopeful, Ash drifted to sleep, entwined with the