The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,94
himself against the more definite pressure of her breasts against his chest, he held her gaze. “All right. Your way. This once. So how?”
Her smile beamed like the sun. Shifting higher on his chest, eyes sparkling, expression eager, she reached for his face. “I’ll tell you when.” Then she bent her head, set her lips to his—and plunged them back into their fire.
Leaving him reeling, then mentally racing, trying to catch up with her—trying to exert some degree of control.
He hadn’t known the flames had hovered so very close. Yes, he’d been brutally aroused from the moment he’d joined her on the bed, but he’d thought—had expected—that she would have cooled, that it would take time—
But no. Just one kiss, one flagrant foray into his mouth, coupled with his instinctive response, and she turned to living flame in his arms.
And there was no slowing down, no controlling the fiery passion, the conflagration of desire that raked and razed and raced through them both. That consumed them both.
Abruptly, she rolled onto her back; he didn’t need her urgent tugging to follow. And then they were tussling, her hands streaking over his skin, reaching for his erection, greedy fingers searching, finding, closing, palms hungrily stroking.
Her breasts filled his hands while he filled her mouth, and she, his wanton, urged him on.
Slow? Where was her slow?
It was she who parted her thighs wide, who wriggled and writhed to get his hips just so. On a curse, he pulled back from the kiss long enough to reach between them and position the blunt head of his aching erection at her entrance.
Scalding slickness bathed the broad head. She was wetter than wet, so ready and willing, as the desperation in her clutching hands assured him.
Equally trapped in the heated desperation, lying fully and heavily atop her, prey to her every arch and writhe, he clamped both hands about her hips, plunged back into the fiery delight of her mouth, and tensed to thrust home.
She wrenched back from the kiss. Hoarsely panted, “Now. Slow now!”
Now?
“God almighty.” His weight on his elbows, he gritted his teeth, jaw clenched to cracking as he locked every muscle against the driving, pounding insistence that he move—that he thrust into the heated haven waiting, beckoning.
She gulped in air, managed a tiny nod. “I want to feel . . . you. There. I didn’t get a chance to the first time . . .”
Her explanation wasn’t helping. “I’ll try,” he ground out, then shut her up in the only way that ever worked.
And fought, battled, to give her what she wanted.
He eased in—a fraction. Just enough to push the head of his erection past her tight entrance.
Beneath him, he felt her quiver—not with fear but with a sensual expectation that reached to his bones and made him shudder, too.
Gave him the strength to try for another half an inch. Then pause. Then another incremental advance.
Her body tight as a bowstring, every bit as tense as he, she sighed into his mouth, then shifted her lips enough to whisper against his, “Oh. My. Lord. Yes.”
The quality she invested into the last word—that alone would have been worth his pain.
Accepting that, accepting that acceding to her request had indeed lavished untold pleasure on her, made it easier still to continue to penetrate her inch by slow inch.
Mary lay beneath him, utterly overwhelmed, her senses locked on the sensation of the veined rod, hot as flame and as unforgiving as forged steel, slowly, and now more steadily, pushing into her. Stretching her, filling her, in some way she didn’t fully comprehend, completing her.
The moment overloaded her mind in every way, obliterating the hollow emptiness that had dwelled deep within her when he’d first laid her on the bed.
With an effort, she raised her lashes. His eyes were shut; his face appeared graven, every plane sharp-edged with desire. With reined passion. She could feel the rigid control he wielded—to give her what she’d asked for.
Lids falling, she mentally reached out and wrapped her expanding senses about them—and savored all the excruciatingly sensation-filled moment was doing to them both. They were both panting, heated breaths mingling, lips dry, but still hungry.
They were both poised, nerves tighter than drum skins, reined, teetering on that sexual brink . . .
Then with a last, small thrust, he was there. Embedded within her, filling her completely, the head of him nudging her womb, the heaviness of his sac brushing her sensitized skin.