Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (42 page)

“You’re not still worried about my feet, are you?” I asked, my voice raspy from sleep, my words slightly slurred.

He chuckled, kissing my forehead, and whispered in the dark. “I’m still thinking of your feet. They need to be protected.”

I laughed, coming more awake, twisting my arms around his and kissing his neck. “What time is it?”

“Late,” he said, setting me down on my bed and kneeling in front of me.

Cletus reached for my right boot and pulled it off. Then he worked on my left. His eyes followed his movements, his face impassive as his hands pulled off my socks and tucked them away. Then he sat next to me on the bed and pushed my hair over one shoulder. His fingers searched for the zipper at the back of my dress.

“The other one didn’t have a zipper,” he mumbled, finally finding the pull.

My room was dim, just the light from the hallway spilling in through the doorway, so I couldn’t see very well. But I felt him, felt his thigh against my thigh, his fingers on my neck and back, his breath against my cheek.

Suddenly, I was awake. And I was restless. And I’d missed him terribly. I shifted, swallowed, tensed as the zipper lowered down my lower back.

He leaned away and I felt his eyes on my profile. “Are you okay? Do you need my help to undress?”

His question, so calm and kindly meant—almost detached—made my heart twist and ache. He thought I was tired, he thought I was still sleepy. He wanted to make sure I was okay.

How Cletus cared for me was both exhilarating and exasperating.

Didn’t he know I wanted him? Didn’t he know how I longed for his touch, for both the sweet and the rough? Every night we’d been separated I thought of him, of his hands and mouth and tongue and fingers and . . .

“Jenn?”

His tone was patient, composed, infuriating. 

I stood, stepping in front of him, and pulled down the sleeves of my dress. He lifted his chin and his eyebrows arched as well. Our eyes met and tangled. I wondered, could he read my thoughts? Did he know what I wanted?

Or will I have to show him?

As his eyebrows lowered, settling into a thoughtful position, his lips parted—his glorious, kissable lips—as though a question were on the tip of his tongue. 

My sweater dress fell to the floor, leaving me in nothing but my undies and bra. I quickly removed the bra. And then my underwear. And then I was naked.

He blinked at me, confusion and desire gathering behind his gaze. His hands fisted, grabbing the comforter, as though he were trying to control himself, hold on to something tangible.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asked roughly, his voice suddenly gravel, his throat working, his expression a mixture of torment, hunger, and determination.

He didn’t understand, not yet.

So I shook my head, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. I reached for his shirt, tugged it up and over his head. He obliged by lifting his arms, tossing both to the floor at the foot of the bed. I paused, devouring the sight of his bare chest, of his stomach and arms, his shoulders. He had really beautiful shoulders.

And then I knelt in front of him and reached for his belt buckle.

He grabbed my hands. “Jennifer, what are you doing?” He sounded breathless.

I ignored the question, instead straightening and lifting my chin, capturing his mouth with a kiss as my pebbled nipples grazed his chest, making him shudder and sigh and groan. He released me and cupped my breasts, groaning again, massaging and caressing, as though helpless to fight against the reality of boobs.

Good to know.

Taking advantage of the distraction, I redoubled my efforts with his belt, then made quick work of unbuttoning and unzipping his fly. I shifted away and he followed, his hands seeking my skin. I stood and he stood, kissing my neck, biting my shoulder, then bending to lick the flat of his tongue against the center of my breast.

My breath hitched, because the hot, wet friction felt essential and startling. But then I remembered myself and what I wanted. I pushed his pants down first, then his boxers, then I pushed him.

He fell backward on the bed.

“Take off your shoes,” I heard myself say, my eyes greedily savoring the sight of a naked Cletus.

Well, almost naked. His pants were around his ankles, blocked by his boots.

He glared at me and it felt furious. It felt desperate. Again he balled his hands into fists. He shook his head.

“What are you doing?” His tone now gruffer, angrier, raw. He was breathing hard and appeared to be barely retraining some dark urge.

Give in to it.

I swept my long hair to the side and bent to remove his boots, pulling the laces, then tugging them off along with his pants and socks.

Now he was naked. We both were. And his jaw was clenched.

My beautiful man.

I placed a knee on the bed and he flinched, shaking his head, his eyes dark and dangerous. “I don’t have a condom.”

“And I’m not on birth control,” I whispered, laying my hand on his shoulder.

He flinched again at the contact, grabbing my wrist and pulling it away. His eyes flashed and I saw what I hoped to see: Desire. Reverence. Longing. Devotion. Lust. Love.

His control was slipping.

“What the hell are you doing, Jenn?”

I don’t know.

Placing my other knee on the bed, one on either side of his hips, I lowered myself, my open center sliding against his erection.

We both trembled. His eyes snapped to mine.

Watching him—a starving, wild thing—I rocked my hips, pressing myself more completely against him, and I whispered, “Make love to me.”

He growled, a savage, strangled sound. His hands finally, finally came to my body and he flipped us. My back hit the bed and he was on me, kissing me, his fingers between my legs, skillfully stroking my center.

I shivered, grabbing his hand and trying to pull it away. “I want you to make love to me with your body. I want you inside me.”

“I know.” He growled, claiming my mouth quickly, not relinquishing his place, still stroking. “But you’re not ready yet.”

“I am ready.”

He shook his head, then lowered his mouth to my neck, then lower to the valley between my breasts. Then lower to my stomach.

My protest died as his tongue settled against my entrance. He parted me with his thumbs and licked me, hot and wet and at once overwhelming but not enough. My hips bucked and he pressed me down, holding me in place with his strong fingers as he lapped and sucked and savored.

“Cletus, I want you . . . I want you inside me. I don’t want to . . . not like this.”

He groaned, but he didn’t stop. I lifted myself weakly on my elbows and saw that he’d grabbed himself, held is magnificent penis in his fist. At the sight, and against my will, I came.

My back arched and bowed and my entire body tensed. I pulled in a desperate breath, the excruciating pleasure of his mouth on me pulling me apart and putting me back together.

I came cursing him, tears of frustration gathering in my eyes as wave after wave of tortuous ecstasy pulsed through my veins.

I was so angry.

I wanted him, and he’d held himself back. He’d held himself away.

Gasping for air, I prepared myself for a fight, but my body was too pliant, too relaxed and satiated.

And then he was there. He was over me, his erection still in his fist, his eyes on mine. Cletus settled himself between my legs, his hard, thick length sliding against my still sensitive flesh. I shuddered.

“Cletus.”

“Now you’re ready,” he growled, his fingers threading through my hair, pushing it out of my face.

Using his powerful thighs, he spread me wider, sliding into my body.

My breath hitched and my hands searched for him, for purchase, because as exquisite as my orgasm had been, now I felt mostly pressure.

His eyes searched mine, but he didn’t ask. Holding my wide gaze, he thrust his hips forward and I gasped. A sharp, pinching pain making me stiffen and moan.

“I was going to be patient.” His voice hushed, gruff. “I was going to be so good.”

He withdrew and the pressure eased, but then he thrust again. I tensed, wincing, prepared for more pain, but it didn’t come. His hips moved slowly then, rocking, pushing, then withdrawing. His eyes held mine captive, cherishing and predatory.

“Temptation,” he nipped at my lips, grazing his lips against my jaw, “you feel so good, so fucking good, so fucking good.” His breathless and chanting confession sounded mindless, as though he didn’t realize he was speaking.

I felt myself relax, the earlier tension dissipate, and I reveled in the feel of him above me, his body sliding against mine where we mated.

“You feel good, too,” I whispered.

“Do you like this?” Cletus’s wild, needful eyes moved between mine, his grip on me tightening.

I nodded, panting. “I love you.”

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, an unsteady exhale escaping his lungs. He was fighting his release and I thought I knew why. He wanted me to come again. He wanted my first time to be amazing.

It was.

He was.

Because of his care for me. Because I loved him. Because he loved me

I tilted my chin, capturing his mouth, teasing his tongue until he gave it to me. His hands found mine and our fingers entwined. The way he moved above me, with rhythm and grace, like I was an instrument, and he was a musician, and together we made something more, something beautiful.

I felt my body straining, reaching for something just out of its grasp. It felt exciting and I moaned, sighed, and moaned again.

He growled in response and his powerful body increased the tempo. The feel of him became more pleasure than pressure and I arched, tilting my hips to meet each of his thrusts.

His eyes flew open and collided with mine. “Jenn—”

“What does that feel like?”

“Heaven. Paradise.”

I rolled my hips and he sucked in a breath. “Don’t.”

“Let me be your paradise.” I kissed his neck, my nails trailing down his chest, between our bodies. “Let me be your heaven. Because you are mine.”

Cletus groaned at my words, coming apart before my eyes, a heady range of emotions flashing over his features, just before he crushed my mouth with a fierce, covetous kiss. And when he was spent, he stilled, his breathing labored.

Eventually, he rolled to his side, gathering me to him. His heart thundering as he placed passionate kisses over my face and neck and breasts.

I threaded my fingers into his hair and enjoyed the friction of his beard against my skin, his hot mouth on my body.

He continued kissing me, devouring me, for a long time. Meanwhile, I felt stretched and twisted and worked and used, supple with lovemaking and the adoration of his eyes and hands and mouth.

Folding me in his arms and crushing me, as though he were afraid I’d leave him, he shook his head. I sensed he was about to speak, and I also guessed that what he had to say wasn’t what I most wanted to hear at this moment.

“I don’t regret what just happened,” I announced, “I loved it, and I love you, and I can’t wait to do it again. Don’t you dare say a single word to the contrary.”

Huffing a laugh and squeezing me tighter, he searched for my mouth. Finding it, he took my lips with a soul-searing kiss, shifting just an inch away to say, “Even if I wanted to, even if you wanted me to, I would never regret making love to you.” He kissed my nose and waited until my eyes met his. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait to do it again.”

A protest ripe on my tongue, he cut me off.

“Just two days, three at the most. And then we can do it whenever you like,” he kissed me again, “as often as you like,” he kissed me once more, “and wherever you like.”

I grinned and his hand slid from my hip to my breast, his thumb tracing a circle around the peak. God, I love his hands. I loved how he touched me.

“You promise?”

He nodded. “I promise.”

“Then prepare yourself, because we’re going to do it all the time. Until I’m an expert.”

“Then what happens?”

“Then we’ll do it even more.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, kissing me and sucking on my bottom lip like he couldn’t help himself. But then his smile waned as he drew away. It softened and his eyes sharpened.

“Jenn, if we’ve made a baby, then I won’t stop badgering you until you have me as your husband.” Achingly vulnerable, his tone was also solemn with promise.

I smoothed my hand over his chaotic curls. “I know. And I wouldn’t stop badgering you until you have me as your wife.”

“Do you want to be my wife?” His smile returned, but this time it was subdued, hopeful.

“More than anything.”

Cletus’s mercurial eyes moved between mine, his hand petting and stroking from my shoulder to my hip.

“Then marry me,” he whispered the command, his tone thick with passion and sincerity.