Read Online Andrew: Lord of Despair by Grace Burrowes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Grace Burrowes
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which situation curtails most of my options and a good deal of my health as well.”
A taut silence stretched when Astrid finished speaking, and she wondered if she’d destroyed the friendship Andrew had extended to her. A husband’s loss she was learning to bear, but to lose Andrew…
“That miserable, arrogant, ignorant, inexcusably inept little prick,” Andrew expostulated, seizing her by the shoulders and pressing her down to the blanket. “At least I won’t get you pregnant.”
To her immense, profound, immeasurable relief, he was all over her, his tongue tracing her lips and thrusting inside with lazy eroticism. He blanketed her with his body, letting the ridge of his erection rest along her belly. His fingers brushed at her face, her hair, her neck, and then his hand wandered up along her ribs, to settle—finally, finally —over one ripe, sensitive breast.
Once, at the end of a day years past, when Andrew and Astrid had faced real peril, they’d both found themselves under Gareth’s roof. She’d slipped into his room, and he’d obliged her curiosity and need for human connection, petting and stroking her to her first experience of sexual pleasure, though even then, he’d been planning his travel, and she’d known it. They’d never talked about that night, but the memory of it beat in her brain in time with the rising rhythm of her heart.
What if she’d never had that experience with Andrew? What if Herbert’s fumbling humiliation was all she’d ever been allowed to know of passion?
“Tell me what you like,” Andrew whispered in her ear.
“Everything,” she panted as she slipped her hands under his shirt. “Anything, just don’t stop touching me, please , and clothes off, now.”
Andrew lifted up enough to pull his shirt over his head, shucked his breeches in a few jerky maneuvers, then untied the bows of Astrid’s bodice and jumps—her breasts were too sensitive for stays—and peeled her garments from her shoulders. She shimmied up and out of her skirt, pulled her chemise over her head, and in a startlingly short time, became, like Andrew, completely unclothed.
“This is decadent,” Astrid said, her gaze sweeping the muscled expanse of Andrew’s nudity. He was decadent, decadently beautiful, right down to the arousal that arrowed up along his flat belly.
Andrew put a fist under her chin and raised her gaze to meet his.
“We can stop, Astrid,” he assured her gravely. “We can stop right now, because we both know this is not wise. I am not what you deserve.”
She closed her eyes and tried for patience, but the image of Andrew in all his pagan glory would not leave her mind. “You are what I need , right now. Please. ”
Before she was reduced to begging—more explicit begging—Andrew again lowered his body over hers, but he changed the tenor of their coupling, his touches becoming tender, lyrical, and cherishing. His fingers brushed along her sex, and he used his mouth to bring marvelous pleasure to her nipples. When his erection probed at her delicately, she wrapped her legs around him and lifted her hips in welcome.
“Andrew,” she pleaded, “I need you inside me, for the love of God , would you come inside me now.” For years she had needed him, and that need threatened to consume her very reason.
He answered her by threading himself into her body and slowly gliding his hips forward, then retreating.
After four years without passion, without pleasure, without emotional intimacy in any identifiable form, Astrid wanted to savor the relief of this coupling. Later, she would grapple with guilt, shame, or consternation, but for now she wanted to savor the intimacy of it, the passion, the joy. Her body did not oblige these intentions, for she was coming in great, clutching contractions before Andrew had withdrawn for the third thrust.
He apparently understood, because he drove into her with measured force, prolonging and intensifying her pleasure, drawing out each
A taut silence stretched when Astrid finished speaking, and she wondered if she’d destroyed the friendship Andrew had extended to her. A husband’s loss she was learning to bear, but to lose Andrew…
“That miserable, arrogant, ignorant, inexcusably inept little prick,” Andrew expostulated, seizing her by the shoulders and pressing her down to the blanket. “At least I won’t get you pregnant.”
To her immense, profound, immeasurable relief, he was all over her, his tongue tracing her lips and thrusting inside with lazy eroticism. He blanketed her with his body, letting the ridge of his erection rest along her belly. His fingers brushed at her face, her hair, her neck, and then his hand wandered up along her ribs, to settle—finally, finally —over one ripe, sensitive breast.
Once, at the end of a day years past, when Andrew and Astrid had faced real peril, they’d both found themselves under Gareth’s roof. She’d slipped into his room, and he’d obliged her curiosity and need for human connection, petting and stroking her to her first experience of sexual pleasure, though even then, he’d been planning his travel, and she’d known it. They’d never talked about that night, but the memory of it beat in her brain in time with the rising rhythm of her heart.
What if she’d never had that experience with Andrew? What if Herbert’s fumbling humiliation was all she’d ever been allowed to know of passion?
“Tell me what you like,” Andrew whispered in her ear.
“Everything,” she panted as she slipped her hands under his shirt. “Anything, just don’t stop touching me, please , and clothes off, now.”
Andrew lifted up enough to pull his shirt over his head, shucked his breeches in a few jerky maneuvers, then untied the bows of Astrid’s bodice and jumps—her breasts were too sensitive for stays—and peeled her garments from her shoulders. She shimmied up and out of her skirt, pulled her chemise over her head, and in a startlingly short time, became, like Andrew, completely unclothed.
“This is decadent,” Astrid said, her gaze sweeping the muscled expanse of Andrew’s nudity. He was decadent, decadently beautiful, right down to the arousal that arrowed up along his flat belly.
Andrew put a fist under her chin and raised her gaze to meet his.
“We can stop, Astrid,” he assured her gravely. “We can stop right now, because we both know this is not wise. I am not what you deserve.”
She closed her eyes and tried for patience, but the image of Andrew in all his pagan glory would not leave her mind. “You are what I need , right now. Please. ”
Before she was reduced to begging—more explicit begging—Andrew again lowered his body over hers, but he changed the tenor of their coupling, his touches becoming tender, lyrical, and cherishing. His fingers brushed along her sex, and he used his mouth to bring marvelous pleasure to her nipples. When his erection probed at her delicately, she wrapped her legs around him and lifted her hips in welcome.
“Andrew,” she pleaded, “I need you inside me, for the love of God , would you come inside me now.” For years she had needed him, and that need threatened to consume her very reason.
He answered her by threading himself into her body and slowly gliding his hips forward, then retreating.
After four years without passion, without pleasure, without emotional intimacy in any identifiable form, Astrid wanted to savor the relief of this coupling. Later, she would grapple with guilt, shame, or consternation, but for now she wanted to savor the intimacy of it, the passion, the joy. Her body did not oblige these intentions, for she was coming in great, clutching contractions before Andrew had withdrawn for the third thrust.
He apparently understood, because he drove into her with measured force, prolonging and intensifying her pleasure, drawing out each
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