Free Andrew: Lord of Despair by Grace Burrowes

contraction, and anchoring her as all sense of bodily orientation—up, down, prone, on earth—escaped her. When she lay quietly beneath him, he began moving once more, thrusting more deeply, setting up a rhythm that soon had her arching and groaning in his arms again.
    “Let go, love,” he urged. “Take all you want, and I’ll still have more for you.”
    She could plunder his patience for years , and yet she came apart again all too soon, and this time Andrew echoed the rhythms of her contractions with answering pressure on her nipple. Pleasure cascaded through her with brilliant, nigh-unbearable intensity, but true to his word, Andrew offered her still more.
    She recovered enough to meet his gaze, the tenderness in his eyes registering deep in her body. Where had he been? Where had he needed to go so badly four years ago that they’d denied themselves even one more taste of such pleasure?
    She could not ask him. He’d leave her naked and alone on the blanket if she tried.
    “I have missed you,” Astrid said, a small truth that ought to be safe, for all that missing him filled her heart even as he still filled her body. She brushed her fingers through the silky dark hair falling over his forehead.
    He did not echo her sentiment, not in words. He smiled down at her crookedly, and set to kissing her, using his tongue in synchrony with his hips.
    “Hold me,” he whispered as he again built a rhythm with his thrusting.
    She obliged willingly, joyously. Oh, how right it felt to make love with Andrew, how beautiful, and right, and loving. Tension that had built for years unfurled, as Astrid realized that not only would he shower her with pleasure, Andrew would delight in receiving it from her as well.
    He moved in her with measured strokes, minutely changing the angle of his hips to effect an ever more gratifying penetration. She bowed up, trying to be closer, feeling pleasure bearing down on her again. Andrew braced himself on his forearms, but reached both hands to cover hers where they rested beside her head on the blanket.
    “Come with me, Astrid. Come with me now.”
    She recognized all his previous attention as so much generous teasing, because now he was moving in pursuit of mutual pleasure. He drove into her more deeply, kissed her more carnally, and laced his fingers through hers more tenderly, until she was helpless in the throes of gratification so intense she lost the sense of being in a body separate from her lover’s.
    Andrew groaned softly into her mouth, a sweet sound of intimacy and relief, and Astrid felt a wet heat where their bodies joined.
    They lay naked in the sunshine, serenaded by the stream and the breeze for long minutes. When Andrew shifted as if to spare her his weight, Astrid stopped him with a firm hand on his lower back.
    “Where are you going?” For she never wanted to let him out of her sight, never wanted this moment of intimacy and pleasure to end.
    “Not far.” He eased his body from hers, leaving Astrid on her back, feeling again the sunshine on her naked breasts, and a pervasive lassitude of both mind and body. Her eyes flew open, however, when she felt Andrew swabbing gently at her with a damp cloth.
    “For goodness’ sake, Andrew,” she hissed, scrambling up to her elbows and reaching for the cloth. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    He regarded her curiously for a few heartbeats, a linen serviette in his hand.
    “If your husband were not dead,” he said quite seriously, “I would have to kill him for his neglect of you. Lie back and let me care for you.”
    Confused at his irritable tone, Astrid did as he told her.
    “He wasn’t a bad man, Andrew, just starchy about certain things.” Or thoughtless. Exceedingly, exasperatingly selfish too.
    And hypocritical.
    Andrew huffed—a disgruntled version of a sigh—and splashed more water onto the cloth. He surprised her by tossing it onto her stomach and lying back with an arm across his brow.
    “My turn,