Then he used a hand to lift the mound of her breast, catching the tip between his lips. He sucked, drawing the nipple into the lush, wet heat of his mouth, as he ground his pelvis against her clitoris. She gasped and her back arched off the bed. The drawing suction was similar to what he’d done between her legs earlier and it only increased her craving. She was burning, aching. Mindless and needy, an animal in heat. “Oh, God,” she breathed and rocked up to meet him.

He released her and began thrusting with more force than before. “Christ. I am so close.” Covering her with his body, he moved quicker, their hands threaded together, his breath hot in her ear. She loved the weight of him, the ferocity with which he worked. The whole time he whispered a stream of compliments about how good she felt, how hot, how perfect. When his teeth sank into the skin between her neck and shoulder, the world disappeared. A climax burned through her veins, searing her. She shook and cried out, dimly aware of Clay’s own grunts as the pleasure turned her inside out.

Before she’d even stopped trembling, Clay jerked away. Ropes of thick semen landed on her stomach as his hand flew over his shaft, milking it, the lines of his face pulled taut as if he was in pain. One last groan and he finished, her skin coated in his spend.

Harsh exhalations cut the silence, their bodies sweaty and shaken. It was like nothing she’d expected, beyond her wildest dreams. The other times . . . Well, they paled in comparison. Had those men been clumsy lovers? Or did her respect and fondness for Clay make the experience better?

She couldn’t say. But if she had her way, this would not be the last time she and Clay slept together.

Clay’s eyes opened and he winced as his gaze took in her stomach. “Shit,” he muttered before pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “God, I’m sorry, Florence.” Without looking at her, he slid off the bed. “Don’t move.”

Chapter Twelve

Oh, he’d . . . apologized. That was unexpected.

Florence tried not to feel disappointed as cool air rushed over her naked skin. The erotic novels she read talked about cuddling after the act. Snuggles and soft kisses in the warm afterglow. To date, however, such tenderness hadn’t been her experience at all. Chester had barely bothered to remove his shoes during their encounters—and Clay had just rushed out as if the room were on fire.

Perhaps she was overromanticizing these interludes. Men supposedly viewed sex as strictly for physical pleasure, not for any emotional connection with a partner. Somehow, she’d scared both her lovers into hurrying through the rendezvous.

You’re not happy unless you’re causing a stir or the center of everyone’s attention.