Maisey Yates - Married On Paper

Her fingertips skimmed down his torso, over his washboard-flat stomach and down to his belt buckle. She sucked in a breath and worked the belt loose, letting it fall open. She felt driven now to uncover him, to see him, all of him. She had wondered, for so many years she had wondered, and now she didn’t think she could wait another second to see the body her mind had woven fantasies around since she was sixteen.

She pushed his pants and underwear down his hips in one jerky movement, and he kicked them to the side, his eyes never leaving hers. He made no move toward her, he simply stood, naked, completely aroused, in the middle of his living room.

His confidence boosted hers. He wanted this. He wanted her. For once, she wasn’t going to worry about possible inadequacy.

She moved her hands down, not quite touching him intimately. He closed his eyes and put his hand over hers, guiding her toward his erection. Her stomach tightened, nerves making a guest appearance now.

She took a breath and placed her hand over his hard shaft. He was hot steel beneath her palm, the hard length of him speaking of his desire for her. She felt her internal muscles tighten as she explored him, nerves fleeing, unable to exist alongside the need that was filling her now.

She squeezed him gently, then again with more strength, increased boldness, when a raw sound of pleasure escaped his lips. His civility was all gone now. Lost in desire, his custom suit on the floor, he was just a man. And he called to everything feminine inside her, made her ache with the need to have him.

“You are overdressed now, I think, querida ,” he said, his voice raw.

She felt the slide of the zipper, a rush of cool air on her back, and then her dress was pooled at her feet. She was still wearing her high heels and a barely there bra and panty set. She should have felt silly, or embarrassed or something. But she didn’t.

Because she saw the hunger in his eyes. Saw the need that reflected her own.

And she felt powerful. Powerful and turned on.

“Kiss me,” she said, reaching for him.

“Un momento.” He unclasped her bra and discarded it. “Beautiful.”

He cupped her breast, sliding his thumb over her nipple. She sucked in a breath and watched his dark hand cover her pale flesh. He leaned in and kissed her neck, then lower still, drawing one tightened bud into his mouth, teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

“Laz …” She gripped his head and held him to her, hoping that he would keep her from sliding to the floor.

He lowered himself to his knees, his lips skimming over her ribs, her stomach. He pushed her panties down her legs, baring her to him. She closed her eyes then and just felt. He kissed her thigh, his hands moving down her legs, unfastening the buckle on one of her shoes. He moved his thumb over her ankle as he removed her high heel, the contact on a totally unerotic point on her body sending sparks of sensation skittering through her.

He did the same with her other shoe, tossing it to the side along with the rest of her clothes.

“Sit down,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

She looked behind her and saw the plush velvet couch. She’d forgotten where she was for a moment. Everything had gone fuzzy around the edges, everything except for Lazaro.

She lowered herself to the couch, unsure why she was doing it, only knowing that, in this instance, obeying Lazaro was going to be the most rewarding course of action. She didn’t know how she knew, only that she did.

“I have dreamed of this. Of you,” he said, on his knees before her. “Of how you would look. Of how you would taste.”

He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, his hands moving to grip her hips and draw her to the edge of the couch.

Her entire body was trembling, inside and out, desire and curiosity defeating any of the embarrassment she should be feeling. Because this wasn’t about propriety. This was about need. And she needed Lazaro.

She wove her fingers through his hair as he continued kissing her, higher, until he hit the spot that was aching for his touch. He slid his tongue over her, the friction sending heat and flame through her body.

She could feel something building in her, could feel the onset of her climax, so close. So close. He released his grip on her hips and pushed one finger inside her, the rhythm of his penetration working in time with the flick of his tongue over the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs.

The tension that had been building, low and tight, released, pleasure rolling through her in pulsing waves.

When she came back to herself, Lazaro had joined her on the couch, his hands moving over her curves, caressing every inch of her body. He leaned in and kissed her lips. “Good?” he asked.

She nodded, her voice lost to her.

He shifted positions so that he was over her, and she parted her thighs for him, making room. The head of his erection pressed against her and she held her breath for a moment, waiting, for pain or satisfaction or completion, whatever it would bring.

He cursed sharply and got up from the couch, crossing to his discarded pants.

“What?” she asked, feeling dizzy.

“Condom.” He fished a packet from his wallet and tore it open, making quick work of rolling it on.

They’d stopped at the condom point once before. But she had no intention of stopping him now. She couldn’t stop. She had to have him. All of him. For her. For him. Because they both needed it. She did.

She shook with her need to have him. Only him.

Her heart jolted when he moved to her, not from virginal nerves, but because she understood why there hadn’t been another man. It had been so easy to blame it on circumstances. To believe it was because of the specter of her almost-fiancé.

It was because of Lazaro. Because she wanted him. Because she’d been waiting for him. So stupid. So dangerously foolish. But she’d had a taste of true passion in his arms, and no one else had ever aroused anything remotely as intense.

Why take less?

And tonight, Lazaro wasn’t offering less than what she’d felt before. It was more. So much more than she remembered.

“Thank you,” she said, her teeth chattering slightly as a wave of emotion washed through her, making her shake inside.

“For?”

“For remembering. The condom. I think I would have forgotten.”

She was glad he’d thought of it, because she hadn’t. There was so much happening and she couldn’t think straight. Marriage or not, she wasn’t ready for a baby. Not when everything at Pickett was so unstable.

She pushed that thought to the side and focused on Lazaro. Nothing else mattered. Not now.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as he moved back into the position he’d been in, poised to take possession of her body. She kissed him as he thrust into her, focusing only on the pleasure he was giving her with the erotic glide of his tongue, ignoring the vague, tearing pain.

It passed quickly at least, her body adjusting to him, welcoming him. He put his hand on her thigh and urged her to wrap her leg around his, as she’d done on the dance floor. The move opened her up to him, made each of his thrusts stimulate her inside and out.

Pleasure built inside her again, lower, deeper, more intense. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, lowering his head so that he could take one of her nipples into his mouth, his thumb gliding over the other one.

She arched against him, meeting his thrusts, letting his hands, his body, his touch, block out everything. Everything but the climax she was working toward, everything but the pleasure that was threatening to overtake her, body and soul.

His thrusts came faster, harder, his control slipping. He moved his hands to her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. She slid her tongue over the line of his jaw and she felt every muscle in his body shake, then seize as a harsh groan escaped his lips. His pleasure—seeing it, feeling him pulse inside her—pushed her over the edge and she was lost in her own sensation, in the ecstasy that drowned out everything else, every thought, every worry.