Folly by Sabrina York Page B

engaged in such a lewd
pursuit, but he pressed her. “Pick it up, Eleanor. Slip it inside your cunt.”
    “My c—”
    “Cunt. Say it.”
    “C-cunt.”
    “That’s right. That’s good. Now, slip it inside.”
    “I can’t.”
    “You can. Remember our bargain.”
    She swallowed heavily and stared at him, trembling. And just
when he was about to give in, to release her from the bawdy request, she picked
up the candle.
    Every muscle in his body went taut. His eyes burned. He
couldn’t bear to blink.
    She studied it for a bit, as though trying to figure it out.
Then she placed one foot on the ottoman before him, opening herself completely
to his gaze, and lowered the candle. He watched, his breath scalding in his
lungs, as she slipped it in, past her lips, and farther, into her cunt.
    She threw back her head and moaned.
    “D-deeper.”
    She complied and the taper, bit by bit, disappeared. The
sight was riveting. When it was almost all the way in, when she grasped only
the tip, she shuddered. The candle bobbled and a fierce hunger racked him.
    Hell.
    “Now pull it out.”
    She did, easing the candle back out of her cunt, shivering
and groaning at the sensation. It emerged with a slight stain, proof of her
fertility, proof another man’s seed had not taken root inside her.
    The purpose of copulation, at its basest level, was
procreation. Somewhere, deep inside him, Ethan’s primal self howled with
satisfaction at the sight.
    He wanted her.
    Needed her.
    Had to have her.
    Now.
    He stood and grabbed at the candle, jerking it out with a
wet plop. She cried out but he ignored the protest, yanking her body against
his. Too late, he realized he had not prepared. He had not undressed and was
suddenly annoyed with his clothing. He only had time, only had patience for his
trousers. He ripped the placket open, backed her against the wall, lifted her
leg and entered her.
    Her heat, her dampness, the tight grip of her cunt blinded
him.
    She cried out again but clung to him, trembling inside an
out.
    He pulled out and buried himself in her again, in that warm
wet cavern, trembling with delight. She was divine. It was like coming home.
Her embrace was familiar, welcoming, expressly unique. He nested his nose in
the crook of her neck and drew in her scent.
    And he froze.
    The tantalizing memory of another woman, another night,
drifted through his brain, took root. Recognition, certainty flooded him.
Slowly, he lifted his head and stared at her, her nose, the tip of her chin,
those unforgettable lustrous orbs.
    Exultation flooded him.
    His eyes had not recognized his Mignon, but his body knew
her. His body had identified her right away.
    He groaned as she, impatient with his pause, tightened her
muscles around him. And for the moment, this revelation, this epiphany, wafted
away into the mists of his insanity. She clutched at him again, this time with
a twist, and he growled. He lifted her leg higher and wedged himself deeper.
    “Yes,” she cried. Then she bit his neck.
    Ethan lost all sanity.
    He fucked her, hard and fast, yanking out and plunging into
her cunt again and again in rapid succession. The tension within her rose. Her
moans became tighter, shorter, and then rose to wails. He knew she was coming,
sensed the imminence of her crisis, and he increased his strokes. He cupped her
breast, tweaked her nipple and reveled in her response—an excruciating squeeze
that sucked at his cock more tightly than any mouth. A pressure rose in his
balls, his cock started to swell and weep.
    And then she came.
    Ah. She came. Scratching, mewling, scrabbling against him, a
wild creature in the throes of ecstasy. She drew him in deeper with her spasms.
Tighter, harder, sweeter, she squeezed him, stroked him, rode him.
    He exploded. Imploded. Erupted. A delirious burn scored him,
a hot wild rush as his semen gushed from him into her. He thrust deeper, toward
the mouth of her womanhood, letting the hot tide ride its way into her womb,
willing it