straddling him, and he gripped her hips and held her tight while he
rocked against her.
She broke off the kiss. “I think that counts as touching me. Put your hands on the seat.”
Gareth pressed himself against her one last time and did as she commanded. He’s always known that she was a bit of a martinet.
He’d just never known until this moment just how desirable that trait could be in a woman.
His fingers dug into the fabric of the seat. Beau, following his lead, settled her weight on him and rocked slowly. His cock
swelled and her eyes widened.
“Well?” she said.
Gareth groaned. She was going to kill him. “Take off your gloves.”
Beau caught the tips of each finger between her teeth and tugged. The glove slid off, and she spat it out. She did the same
with the second one. By the time it landed beside its companion on the seat, Gareth thought that he might embarrass himself
by coming then and there.
“Get on the floor.”
She looked quizzically at him, one brow raised.
“I swear to God, Beau. If you’re still straddling me when you open my breeches, I
will
fuck you. So get on the floor.”
“You’d lose the bet,” she reminded him, her tone egging him on to just that.
“And it would be worth it,” Gareth said, letting go of the seat and shoving her off his lap. She landed in a disordered heap
and glared up at him.
“That was uncalled for, Gareth.”
“It was entirely called for, brat.”
Beau’s voluptuous mouth slid back into a smile, and she ran her hands up his thighs. She thumbed open the buttons that held
the fall of his breeches and then loosed the waistband. A few more tugs and his shirt was pushed aside, freeing his cock.
She caught her breath sharply, thumbs pushing into the flesh of his upper thighs, the nails distinct even through the fabric
of his breeches. She leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath whisper across his engorged shaft.
“Spit in your hand,” Gareth said. Beau looked slightlydisgusted but did as he directed. “Now wrap your hand around it.”
Her palm was firm against his flesh. Her fingers drummed lightly, hesitantly, along the rigid length. Gareth grit his teeth
and clung to sanity.
“Form a circle with your thumb and index finger. Pull up till you meet the head. Tighter.” She did exactly as he said, and
Gareth nearly came up off the seat. It felt as though every drop of blood in his body had drained to his groin. “Let your
grip soften. Push back down. Again.”
Gareth gripped the seat so hard that his fingers began to cramp. Beau passed her palm over the head of his cock, swiveled
her entire hand around, and pushed down. Gareth shut his eyes and tried not to think about anything that didn’t involve the
immediate sensation of Beau’s hand on his flesh.
How in the hell had she talked him into this?
He groaned, and her grip faltered. Gareth opened his eyes, met her gaze, and held it. He covered her hand with his own and
led her through the motions, fingers entangled, impossible to tell which was touching him.
His breath rattled out of him as he came. He loosened his grip, but Beau gave his cock one last earth-shattering stroke. He
caught her wrist, and she let go, falling back against the opposite seat. “You’re still hard.” Her gaze fastened onto his
still swollen cock.
“Give the boy a moment to realize he’s done for.”
CHAPTER 9
A dangerous swirl of horses and men flying in all directions greeted them at Neville’s Cross. The busy yard had nearly a dozen
coaches loading and off-loading passengers and baggage and swapping teams. Beau stepped out of the coach, only to flatten
herself against it as the mail swept past, close enough that the wheel brushed her skirt.
“Damn it all,” Beau said more loudly than she intended.
“I told you to stay in the coach.” Gareth spun about and stepped over to brush ineffectively at the bits of mud—and worse—spattered
across her
rocked against her.
She broke off the kiss. “I think that counts as touching me. Put your hands on the seat.”
Gareth pressed himself against her one last time and did as she commanded. He’s always known that she was a bit of a martinet.
He’d just never known until this moment just how desirable that trait could be in a woman.
His fingers dug into the fabric of the seat. Beau, following his lead, settled her weight on him and rocked slowly. His cock
swelled and her eyes widened.
“Well?” she said.
Gareth groaned. She was going to kill him. “Take off your gloves.”
Beau caught the tips of each finger between her teeth and tugged. The glove slid off, and she spat it out. She did the same
with the second one. By the time it landed beside its companion on the seat, Gareth thought that he might embarrass himself
by coming then and there.
“Get on the floor.”
She looked quizzically at him, one brow raised.
“I swear to God, Beau. If you’re still straddling me when you open my breeches, I
will
fuck you. So get on the floor.”
“You’d lose the bet,” she reminded him, her tone egging him on to just that.
“And it would be worth it,” Gareth said, letting go of the seat and shoving her off his lap. She landed in a disordered heap
and glared up at him.
“That was uncalled for, Gareth.”
“It was entirely called for, brat.”
Beau’s voluptuous mouth slid back into a smile, and she ran her hands up his thighs. She thumbed open the buttons that held
the fall of his breeches and then loosed the waistband. A few more tugs and his shirt was pushed aside, freeing his cock.
She caught her breath sharply, thumbs pushing into the flesh of his upper thighs, the nails distinct even through the fabric
of his breeches. She leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath whisper across his engorged shaft.
“Spit in your hand,” Gareth said. Beau looked slightlydisgusted but did as he directed. “Now wrap your hand around it.”
Her palm was firm against his flesh. Her fingers drummed lightly, hesitantly, along the rigid length. Gareth grit his teeth
and clung to sanity.
“Form a circle with your thumb and index finger. Pull up till you meet the head. Tighter.” She did exactly as he said, and
Gareth nearly came up off the seat. It felt as though every drop of blood in his body had drained to his groin. “Let your
grip soften. Push back down. Again.”
Gareth gripped the seat so hard that his fingers began to cramp. Beau passed her palm over the head of his cock, swiveled
her entire hand around, and pushed down. Gareth shut his eyes and tried not to think about anything that didn’t involve the
immediate sensation of Beau’s hand on his flesh.
How in the hell had she talked him into this?
He groaned, and her grip faltered. Gareth opened his eyes, met her gaze, and held it. He covered her hand with his own and
led her through the motions, fingers entangled, impossible to tell which was touching him.
His breath rattled out of him as he came. He loosened his grip, but Beau gave his cock one last earth-shattering stroke. He
caught her wrist, and she let go, falling back against the opposite seat. “You’re still hard.” Her gaze fastened onto his
still swollen cock.
“Give the boy a moment to realize he’s done for.”
CHAPTER 9
A dangerous swirl of horses and men flying in all directions greeted them at Neville’s Cross. The busy yard had nearly a dozen
coaches loading and off-loading passengers and baggage and swapping teams. Beau stepped out of the coach, only to flatten
herself against it as the mail swept past, close enough that the wheel brushed her skirt.
“Damn it all,” Beau said more loudly than she intended.
“I told you to stay in the coach.” Gareth spun about and stepped over to brush ineffectively at the bits of mud—and worse—spattered
across her
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