Why I decided to wrestle with Mace, both of us barely-clothed, on a pul out bed would forever remain a mystery for the ages.
But wrestle with Mace I did.
We rol ed, we tussled, the bed creaked loudly and frighteningly. We rol ed back, we tussled some more, the bed creaked louder and more frighteningly and Juno woofed, now thoroughly confused about the current state of affairs.
I tried to gain the upper hand, an impossible feat.
Mace’s long fingers wrapped around my wrists and mostly we tested each other’s strength with me losing.
Mace got on top, his face in my face, his was angry and he clipped, “Damn it, Stel a, stop. You’re gonna tear your stitches.”
“Piss off,” I shot back, not caring about my stitches, in the throes of undeniable temporary insanity, I pushed off with my foot and rol ed him again.
He rol ed me back. We tussled some more.
Looking back, it wasn’t about the band (not total y) it was about being pissed at him for leaving me. Then being pissed at the way he came back in my life. And taking out on him (even though it wasn’t his fault) the fact that I was pissed because Linnie was dead and I was shot. Not to mention him wanting me back and me knowing that couldn’t happen because I couldn’t live through him walking out on me again.
He somehow got on top with his h*ps between my legs and my hands pinned above my head.
I was defeated, I knew it and so did he.
We stared at each other both breathing heavily. Him, I would realize later, from attempting to hold back knowing if he used his ful strength, he’d hurt me. Me, I knew at the time, because I gave it everything I had.
Eyes locked, we just panted in each other’s faces.
Then, face stil angry, that anger warring with something a whole lot different, he said through his teeth, “Christ, I forgot how f**king good you feel when you’re beneath me.” At his words, something shot through me, an electrical current vibrating through every nerve and ending with a sizzle.
Then, do not ask me why, stil deep in my insanity, I lifted my head, pressed my lips against his and kissed him.
Without hesitation, his head slanted and he kissed me back, open-mouthed, wet and deep.
Oh dear.
I forgot how good a kisser Mace was.
We then tussled a different way. He let go of my wrists and our hands started bumping into to each other’s as they moved, mine over the muscles of his back, his sides, his chest, my fingers sliding up his neck and into his hair. His up my sides, in the tank, he tilted up his abs and ran his hand along my bel y, up, to cup my breast, sliding his thumb across my nipple.
Lordy be.
I moaned into his mouth.
It didn’t take long for it to get out-of-control mainly because it had been out-of-control since I threw myself bodily at him – a weird, wild foreplay. I was so turned on I was ready, beyond ready; I’d been waiting a year for this.
The feel of his mouth on mine, his sleek skin and hard muscle under my fingers, the taste of him, the smel of him, his touch, his weight.
I started to tug down my own panties. Mace rol ed to the side, I lifted my knees and he took over, yanking my underwear down my calves and over my ankles and tossing them away. He rol ed to his back, bucked his hips, pul ing off his boxers and tossed them in the direction of my panties. Then he rol ed back to me, sliding between my opened legs, his hands came behind my knees, he pul ed them high and in one smooth, long, hard stroke, he drove into me.
It felt great.
“Harder,” I demanded, my voice low, my arms wrapping around his back.
“No, Kitten, I’l hurt you,” he replied, his voice rough, up on his elbows, his fingers sifting into my hair at the sides of my head, his thrusts firm and fantastic, but control ed.
I kissed him, he took over the kiss but I got what I wanted, his control slipped and he slammed into me harder.
“Yes,” I breathed when our mouths disengaged.
One of his hands went between us, and, right where I needed it, his finger honed in, pressed deep, circled, pressed deeper, circled more.