The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,91

as his body ground against her.

Without preamble, he reached between them with his free hand and wrenched his trousers open. His knuckles brushed against her sex as he did this, and even that insignificant touch electrified her, releasing a flood of moisture in readiness.

She wrapped her arms around his straining shoulders, her nails biting into his long, predatory muscles as the blunt head of his cock drove into her with such force, her body gave a feeble resistance.

She arched toward him, needing to have him, to take him all, creating incredible friction.

A low, desperate noise rose to the stones, echoing back at them with ephemeral fractals of pleasure and pain. She couldn’t tell which of them originated the sound.

And it didn’t matter as he began to move.

Before he drilled her against the wall, his hand rose to cup the back of her head, protecting it from the stone.

It touched her, his tenderness in the midst of this turbulent encounter.

His strokes were long, brutal, and lovely. She cinched her ankles behind his lean hips and took him. Took from him. All the lust and loss, the pleasure and pain. She drank it in like a delicacy meeting the mindless need in his movements with matching strokes.

Something else lurked beneath his fury. An almost reverent incredulity. A raw awareness that reminded her of someone lost in a dream, fully aware that he could wake at any moment.

So she kissed him, hoping to ground him in the moment. To assure him that she was here. With him. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

Groaning, he hiked her higher up the wall, repositioning his hips so his thick shaft would angle inside of her in such a way her breaths became pants of exquisite torture, then vulgar demands.

His sex was like a bolt of lightning, suffusing her with electric sensation that scraped her nerves raw and laid her soul bare. Even as she all but climbed the wall to escape what she knew was going to be a life-altering climax, he never changed his demanding pace. He plunged inside of her with single-minded efficient grace.

Then, oh God then, he broke their kiss to lick his finger and plunge his hand between their bodies.

The moment his thumb brushed her clitoris, the entirety of her world combusted into shards of crippling pleasure. The pleasure moved past awe inspiring to incomprehensible. Unrelenting. Overwhelming.

Vicious.

His bark of mirth was almost cruel in its victory as the pleasure became so intense it spilled over into pain.

Only then did his movements lose their grace, taking on a jerking violence before he locked into shuddering tremors.

His teeth scored the tender skin where her shoulder met her neck, pulling the pleasure out of her sex and diffusing it into the rest of her body.

They locked together for an unparalleled moment of suffusion. It became unclear which movement belonged to which body, so clearly could she feel every twitch and pulse of his pleasure.

Finally, Francesca collapsed against him, wrapping her long limbs around the bulk of him as slowly, incrementally the rest of the world returned. The cold of the rock against her back, the heat of his shaft still inside of her. The scruff of his jaw locked against hers.

Her muscles uncoiled and her fear seemed to drain away, replaced by a sense of peace. Of calm. Of rightness and gratitude.

She ran her nails through the shorter, softer hair at the nape of his neck, enjoying the little sensations of aftershocks thrilling through her belly.

After several quiet moments she realized his experience was nothing like hers. He remained taut. Shuddering. His hands biting into her thighs as he held her aloft with trembling, unsteady fingers.

Troubled, she ran the flat of her palms over his back, wishing she could reach the straining muscle beneath the suit.

“Chandler?” Her whisper of his name was overloud in the cavern. “What is it? Are you—”

His withdraw from her was immediate and stunning. His hands were barely gentle as he let her feet touch the ground, and he turned away immediately to set himself to rights and refasten his trousers.

Not having that option, Francesca stood there, naked, staring at him in wide-eyed confusion.

Bending, he retrieved her garment, such as it was, and shoved it in her direction. His features were distorted with emotions she couldn’t even begin to fathom.

She clutched the garment to her as he plunged a hand into his hair and pulled, his expression still tormented.

Francesca had the sense that even though she was undressed, the man before her