her and again she would be dragged beneath it, helpless against the fluid potency.
And yet he was her anchor, his unfailing strength gifting her with the precious knowledge that she would never be lost. Not while he held her.
He unlatched himself from her with a noisy sound before the storm of her climax had truly passed. She made a plaintive sound in her throat as his strong hands held her legs open and he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. Resting his back against the headboard, he split her legs over his lap while she still shuddered and twitched in the aftermath of an orgasm woefully interrupted.
He stared at her for a moment, and Vanessa scrambled to find her wits so she could fathom what she read in his eyes.
But she never had a chance, not when he lowered her to where the hot, blunt head of his cock rested against the flesh still quivering with release.
Before she could beg him to do so, he lowered her onto him, filling her with one long, slow impale.
Chapter Seven
If John wasn’t already dead, joining with this woman would have killed him.
The wet velvet sheath of her was a heaven in its own right as it welcomed his cock, giving way only in incremental inches as her intimate flesh pulsed around him.
He set his jaw against the storm of a release already gathering at the base of his spine.
It was why he’d not undressed her.
Of course, he’d wanted to see her body again. To unwrap her like God’s very own Christmas gift. But also, he found her prim, high collar stitched with simple lace unwaveringly erotic when her sex was currently pulling his straining shaft into her body somewhere beneath her skirts.
It would last longer like this. Without the added tantalization of watching her unbound breasts sway in front of his eyes.
It’d been longer than a century since he’d been with a woman, goddammit, and a man could only take so much.
But she took all of him. And she gave as well, holding nothing back as he made his erotic demands of her.
God, she was magnificent. Her lips bee-stung from his punishing kisses and her silver eyes a gunmetal grey, dark and dilated with passion and the aftershocks of a pleasure he was about to resurrect.
There wasn’t a man alive who deserved her.
And neither did he.
Lodging himself to the hilt, he held her there for a moment, flexing within her, kneading the soft globes of her ass with restless fingers.
When he could stand it no longer, he arched away, lifting her up to enjoy the soft pull of her channel as it clenched at him.
She was so fucking small. So tight. So perfect. He couldn’t use the word enough. Vanessa Latimer was the perfect woman. His perfect match.
He’d only had to die and wait a century and a half to meet her.
It had been worth it.
His every muscle clenched and corded with tension as he released her hips to run his hands down her smooth thighs.
Trembling as they were, she took over, her knees gripping his hips as she lowered her body to meet his relentless upward thrusts.
Of course they found a perfect rhythm immediately. Of course they did. Of course they would.
Even as they gathered speed, he reached behind him to unlatch her fingers from the headboard and nudged them to grasp his shoulders.
He wanted to feel the bite of her nails as he made her come one more time.
Licking his thumb, he reached beneath her skirt and found slick places where they joined—his hardness, her softness—and he thrummed the little peak of her pleasure, knowing her climax still lingered there because he’d left it at the ideal crest to make it crash upon her once again.
Her mouth fell upon his, open and gasping. And the moment he felt her silken sheath clench around him, drenching his cock with yet another release, he threw open the gates and allowed the storm of his own pleasure to devour him.
It took him with more force than even he expected, locking every muscle into a paroxysm of bliss. His skin caught fire, his veins constricted then released, filling his blood with an inferno of pure, carnal power.
One word swept through him as he released an agonized groan into her mouth, clenching her to his arching, straining body.
Mine, he thought, a wave of melancholy following on the wings of the most powerful pleasure he’d ever taken with a woman.
His woman.
Mine.
It was a fact. She was his.