A first time for everything

This erotic story excerpt from Playing House by Amy Andrews is published with permission.

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Eleanor gasped at the thick intrusion as he groaned and said, “God yes, there,” and thrust halfway in.

It wasn’t painful, she was so wet his erection had glided in easily. But it was full—really full. She felt impossibly stretched. In a good way.

If this was possession, she was already a fan.

“You okay?”

Okay? She couldn’t have been any more okay if she’d been in the middle of a nineteenth-century orgy.

“Yes…please.” She fought to steady her breathing as she slid her hands to his upper arms. “Don’t stop.”

His biceps flexed beneath her fingers, and he slid all the way home on a groan that rumbled right down to her toes and back up again. Eleanor eeked out a breath, her body absorbing the shock of being filled so completely, stretched to her limits.

She’d done it. She was no longer a virgin.

She’d been deflowered.

And bloody hell…it had been worth the wait. Not only had she lost it to a man who had kissed her hand, called her a lady, and acted like a perfect gentleman, but he was hotter than a calendar full of naked French rugby dudes.

His biceps flexed again and she squeezed her thighs tight around his hips and ass to keep him still. “Wait, wait,” she whispered.

Bodie let out a half laugh, half strangled groan. “Now she wants to go slow.”

Eleanor chuffed out a laugh too, sliding her hands under his shirt to his back, anchoring them against his shoulder blades. “Just hold there for a moment.” She needed to catch her breath for a second, to adjust.  “I want to feel you.”

And she wanted to remember it forever. The way Bodie felt inside her those seconds after taking her virginity. He didn’t seem to mind, kissing her eyes and her neck and her ears and her cheeks with such sweetness and gentleness she almost wanted to cry.

He kissed her mouth then, long and slow and deep and she got lost in it, consumed by the glide and play of it. She didn’t know when he started moving, only that she slowly became aware of the rock of his hips, the shift of ass beneath her calves, the steady flare of friction in the muscles that cradled him deep inside her.

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A moan spilled from her lips, a groan spilled from his.

“Jesus.” His mouth broke away and he was panting as he pressed his forehead against hers. “You’re so fucking tight.”

It probably wasn’t right how much his language turned her on. But Lordy, it turned her on. She wasn’t a prude about swear words. She’d grown up around a bunch of rough and tumble jackaroos whose cursing was as inventive as it was frequent. She’d just preferred the art of subtle insult perfected in historical times to more coarse expressions.

Which only proved that, despite years of having her head buried in books, she knew zip about language.

Damned if she didn’t want to tell him she mightn’t feel so tight if he wasn’t so fucking big. But she’d pushed enough boundaries tonight. Plus she wasn’t sure if she could even form a coherent sentence at the moment.

He was withdrawing almost completely now and plunging back in again, and she was so full and tight and achy she wasn’t sure how much longer she could take it.

It was too, too much.

She moaned and shook her head from side to side, agitated by the intensity, overwhelmed by the building pressure, her pulse hammering through her head.

She was on the edge of something big, something hovering just out of reach, retreating a little with every withdrawal, inching closer with every thrust.

She could hear the frustrated mewling animal noises in her throat and then his mouth was pressed to her ear, and he was whispering, “I know, baby, I know,” as his hand reached between their bodies and his fingers found her clitoris and stroked hard and sure.

It was exactly what she needed. The sudden stimulus was like a pin to a balloon, popping all the pressure in one almighty rush.

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She cried out, gasping for air, her short, neat nails raking hard down his back as she trembled beneath him, freefalling through a rainbow of pleasure, colours washing over her in waves, flaring bright and tangible, stroking like velvet over her body before rippling away to be taken by another, more intense than the last.

“Jesus, yes.” Bodie groaned in her ear as he pounded into her, his shoulders hunching into the action, tossing her higher and higher into the rainbow with every thrust, ripping a long continuous moan from her mouth. “Christ…” His buttocks clenched tight beneath her calves, the muscles in his back and biceps trembling. “I’m coming.”

The announcement was torn from his throat as was his shout of release, splintering over her into a thousand shards of pleasure, prolonging her orgasm.

The quiver of his muscles and his ragged pants were like a chant in her ear as he drove them both to their completion before finally collapsing on top of her.

Bodie’s breath rushed noisily in and out right near her ear. “Fuck. Me.”

Eleanor laughed huskily as she struggled for her own breath under the weight of a six-foot rugby forward. She doubted Jane Austen could have put it better. It had been fast and furious, more grunt than finesse, but she was no longer virgin territory.

And what a way to raise a flag!

Begging for more? You can buy Playing House or find out more about Amy Andrews.

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