Chapter 176 Absolute Menace

Chapter 176 Absolute Menace
Cecilia

I woke to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the familiar view of the ocean stretching endlessly beyond Black Peak Estate, and every single muscle in my body screaming in protest.

Arthur Winston, I thought with a mixture of exasperation and grudging affection, is an absolute menace.

I turned my head slowly and found him sleeping beside me.

He looked peaceful. Innocent, almost, if you ignored the very obvious evidence of what we'd spent most of the night doing scattered across the room—my red dress crumpled on the floor, his clothes forming a trail from the door to the bed, the sheets twisted and half-falling off the mattress.

One month, I thought, reaching for the pillow beside me with the intention of smacking him awake so he could witness my righteous indignation. One month apart and he acts like he's making up for lost time in a single night.

But the moment I tried to sit up, to get the leverage I needed for a proper pillow assault, pain lanced through my lower body with enough intensity to make me gasp and freeze mid-motion.

I looked down, mortification flooding through me as I registered the state of myself—the delicate skin between my thighs was swollen and flushed an angry red that definitely hadn't been there before last night's marathon session.

"Oh my god," I whispered, equal parts horrified and impressed that Arthur had managed to be both thorough and apparently completely oblivious to the concept of "too much of a good thing."

The sound of my voice, quiet as it was, seemed to penetrate Arthur's sleep because I felt him stir beside me, his arm tightening around my waist as he made a low, contented sound.

Then his eyes opened, and he was looking at me with that particular expression that meant he was fully awake and already cataloging every detail of my face, my body, my current state of dishevelment.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep as he pulled me closer against his chest, shifting us both so we were lying on our sides, my back pressed against his front in a position that should have been comfortable but instead made me acutely aware of something hard and insistent pressing against my backside.

"Arthur," I said, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to exasperated, "how are you—again? Already?"

His hand slid down my side, coming to rest on my hip with possessive heat that sent shivers through me despite the soreness. "Baby, I haven't touched you in a month. Last night barely took the edge off."

"Barely?" I twisted slightly to look at him over my shoulder, seeing the completely unrepentant expression on his face. "Arthur, I can barely move. Everything hurts. How is that 'barely'?"

"Mm." His lips found the back of my neck, pressing soft kisses along my spine that made my breath catch despite my protests. "Besides, this—" He shifted his hips slightly, making me very aware of exactly what he was referring to, "—is just a normal physiological response. Morning wood. Can't really control it."

The clinical terminology combined with the way he was already pressing closer, already positioning himself between my legs with clear intent, made me want to laugh and protest in equal measure.

"That's not—Arthur, we can't—I'm sore and you're—"

But he was already there, the thick head of him finding my entrance with practiced ease, and despite the soreness, despite the protests I should have been making, I felt myself respond with embarrassing eagerness.

I realized how fiercely my body craved him.

He pushed in slowly, so slowly, just the tip stretching me in a way that made me acutely aware of every nerve ending, and then he stopped, holding himself there while his hand came up to lift my top leg, positioning it over his hip to open me wider.

The new angle let me see everything—the way my body was already flushed and swollen from last night's activities, the way he looked impossibly large against my smaller frame.

"Look at you," Arthur murmured against my ear, his voice dropping to that low register that always made my stomach flip. "So pretty. So perfect. Even after everything we did last night, you're still so tight."

He pulled back slightly, then pushed in again, still shallow, still controlled, just barely breaching my entrance in a way that was somehow more torturous than if he'd just taken me completely.

I made a sound of frustration, my hand coming down to brace against the mattress, trying to get leverage, trying to push back against him and take him deeper because this teasing, this gentle torture, was going to drive me insane.

"More," I heard myself whimper, my body already responding despite the soreness, already slick and ready in a way that should have embarrassed me. "Arthur, please, I need—"

"No." The word came out firm, accompanied by a gentle but inexorable grip on my hip that kept me from moving. "You're sore, baby. I'm not going to hurt you more just because you're impatient."

His lips found my shoulder, pressing soft kisses there as he continued that maddening shallow rhythm, never giving me more than just the head of him, never letting me have what my body was suddenly desperate for.

I looked down, mortification and arousal warring in my chest as I saw the evidence of my need—I was already dripping, my arousal coating him, making everything slick and easy despite the soreness.

This is ridiculous, I thought desperately, even as my hips tried to push back against his restraining hand. I should be telling him to stop, should be insisting we wait until I've recovered, should be—

But then he pushed in slightly deeper, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind my eyes, and all rational thought fled in the face of pure sensation.

I took advantage of his momentary lapse in control, the split second where his grip on my hip loosened, and pushed back hard, taking him completely in one swift motion that had both of us crying out.