The Wicked Pleasures Bundle (Wicked Pleasures: Volume 1/Wicked Pleasures: Volume 2/Wicked Pleasures: Volume 3) by Abbie Cole Page B
Authors: Abbie Cole
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them with lavish soothing caresses along the sensitive inner faces. His lips are gentle on mine, allowing me to focus on each touch, each searing response. On the excitement, the frantic, barely reined passion that has both of us in its grip, I throw my head back as his hand reaches the end of his last caress and drifts higher, stroking my clit.
The shudders that rack me are pure excitement—pure sensual anticipation. Sinking into the soft hay, I gasp and spread my thighs wider—and feel the caresses grow firmer, more deliberate. More intimate, more evocative.
My soft folds are slick; he parts them.
I moan aloud as his knowing fingers find my throbbing clit, and bolts of delight lance through me. Fiery delight, hot and urgent, it strikes deep inside me, catches hold and grows. Pressing my head back, I break from his kiss. He lets me go as he continues to play in the softness between my thighs; I haul in a too-shallow breath and fight to lift my lids.
I see him, his face a mask of concentration etched with passion, watching his fingers as they stroke and twirl. Then one probes.
The sound that escapes me is more of a gasp than a moan, more scream than anything. He glances at my face; his eyes lock on mine. I feel his hand pressing between my thighs—and feel the intrusion of his finger, gently but insistently penetrating.
I gasp again, and close my eyes as he presses farther, deeper.
Then he strokes me—inside—deep within, where I am all slick and hot and so full of desire. So full of molten passion. A passion he has been stirring, deliberately inciting, stoking that inner furnace.
On a shuddering moan, I feel myself melt, causing my senses to soar.
He gives me more, slowly he drives me upward, turning the wheel of the rack of sensual excitement with practiced ease.
Still, I don’t break. I gasp, moan, and arch—and my eager body begs for more.
He looks at me—at my face lightly flushed with desire, at my eyes, glinting from beneath heavy lids. And I feel him holding his breathe.
From sheer lust—from sheer need. The need to be inside me.
With a soft oath, he draws his hands from me.
“Fuck me, Jake.” I barely whisper, my fingers slide down, gliding over the deep ridges of his stomach, then gently close about his cock. He jumps, my touch, tentative at first has him locking his jaw. I can feel him locking every other muscle as well, before moving away.
He pulls off his T-shirt. His boots taking an impatient minute to get off, he stands to strip off his jeans. He must feel my gaze on him, trailing down his back, because he glances over his shoulder. He flings his jeans aside. I lay naked, sprawled in the hay, calmly waiting, simmering. My right hand moves over my breast pinching my nipple, down my stomach to delve into the wet heat between my legs. I find my aching clit as I watch him and moan. I move my fingers lightly over the turgid nub between my spread legs, my breathing shallows as my eyes roam over his wide shoulders, down his back to his firm ass.
My breasts rise and fall rapidly; my skin gently flushed.
Finally naked, his cock juts straight up, fully aroused as he turns to me.
His brow rises as he sees my hand moving between my legs and there is a definite wicked glint in his eye. “Starting without me?” His voice is a growl, his hand fists around his hard dick, stroking his thick erection.
My mouth waters, my gaze lowers, stopping at his heavy, thick cock, then slowly rises to his face. “No, priming the pump.”
He chuckles.
I lift my arms to him.
He comes to me—covers me—takes my lips in a searing kiss and without hesitating, eases himself into me. I am hot and tight and primed.
He holds still, for one long, achingly tense moment, now I ease about him. Instinct claims him—he thrusts powerfully, deep into my body—and claims me.
Driving him, driving me, into a frenzy of a rhythm.
Far beyond thought,
The shudders that rack me are pure excitement—pure sensual anticipation. Sinking into the soft hay, I gasp and spread my thighs wider—and feel the caresses grow firmer, more deliberate. More intimate, more evocative.
My soft folds are slick; he parts them.
I moan aloud as his knowing fingers find my throbbing clit, and bolts of delight lance through me. Fiery delight, hot and urgent, it strikes deep inside me, catches hold and grows. Pressing my head back, I break from his kiss. He lets me go as he continues to play in the softness between my thighs; I haul in a too-shallow breath and fight to lift my lids.
I see him, his face a mask of concentration etched with passion, watching his fingers as they stroke and twirl. Then one probes.
The sound that escapes me is more of a gasp than a moan, more scream than anything. He glances at my face; his eyes lock on mine. I feel his hand pressing between my thighs—and feel the intrusion of his finger, gently but insistently penetrating.
I gasp again, and close my eyes as he presses farther, deeper.
Then he strokes me—inside—deep within, where I am all slick and hot and so full of desire. So full of molten passion. A passion he has been stirring, deliberately inciting, stoking that inner furnace.
On a shuddering moan, I feel myself melt, causing my senses to soar.
He gives me more, slowly he drives me upward, turning the wheel of the rack of sensual excitement with practiced ease.
Still, I don’t break. I gasp, moan, and arch—and my eager body begs for more.
He looks at me—at my face lightly flushed with desire, at my eyes, glinting from beneath heavy lids. And I feel him holding his breathe.
From sheer lust—from sheer need. The need to be inside me.
With a soft oath, he draws his hands from me.
“Fuck me, Jake.” I barely whisper, my fingers slide down, gliding over the deep ridges of his stomach, then gently close about his cock. He jumps, my touch, tentative at first has him locking his jaw. I can feel him locking every other muscle as well, before moving away.
He pulls off his T-shirt. His boots taking an impatient minute to get off, he stands to strip off his jeans. He must feel my gaze on him, trailing down his back, because he glances over his shoulder. He flings his jeans aside. I lay naked, sprawled in the hay, calmly waiting, simmering. My right hand moves over my breast pinching my nipple, down my stomach to delve into the wet heat between my legs. I find my aching clit as I watch him and moan. I move my fingers lightly over the turgid nub between my spread legs, my breathing shallows as my eyes roam over his wide shoulders, down his back to his firm ass.
My breasts rise and fall rapidly; my skin gently flushed.
Finally naked, his cock juts straight up, fully aroused as he turns to me.
His brow rises as he sees my hand moving between my legs and there is a definite wicked glint in his eye. “Starting without me?” His voice is a growl, his hand fists around his hard dick, stroking his thick erection.
My mouth waters, my gaze lowers, stopping at his heavy, thick cock, then slowly rises to his face. “No, priming the pump.”
He chuckles.
I lift my arms to him.
He comes to me—covers me—takes my lips in a searing kiss and without hesitating, eases himself into me. I am hot and tight and primed.
He holds still, for one long, achingly tense moment, now I ease about him. Instinct claims him—he thrusts powerfully, deep into my body—and claims me.
Driving him, driving me, into a frenzy of a rhythm.
Far beyond thought,
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