Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,59
was okay. That was – good, even.
She took a quick breath, an unbidden reaction, and he must have heard it, if the tightening of his hands on her waist was any indication. The mattress dipped as he shifted in closer, the sheets rustling. She felt him crowd in behind her, the brush of his thighs against her ass, and she clenched in anticipation.
But he was being mean, he said. Meaner. Teasing, still. She had the sense of his weight covering her; felt the heat of his breath before he kissed her spine. Soft and chaste, but it had her toes curling.
He worked his way up every vertebra, dropping a kiss on each, his breath hot and humid against her skin, his lips only flirting. By the time he buried his face in her nape, he was curled completely over her, his chest to her back, and she could feel his cock, thick and hard against the inside of her thigh.
“Lance,” she breathed out, unsteadily. She couldn’t believe how wildly turned on she was from so little contact.
“Hm,” he hummed, nosing at her hair. He braced one hand on the mattress beside her own, and palmed her breast with the other. “What was that?”
Ass, she thought, but fondly, and pressed back against his hips, trying to entice him to move faster.
He inhaled, chest swelling against her back, but he continued to pet her almost leisurely. Weighing and shaping both of her hanging breasts in turn, plucking at her nipples until she squirmed and ground her ass into his hips.
“Lance,” she tried again.
His movements were deliberate and controlled, but his voice was anything but when he spoke. “I know, I know,” he murmured, and he kissed his way down the side of her neck to her shoulder. His hand smoothed between her breasts, down her breastbone and belly. Down, down, until he reached her sex. “You wet for me?”
“Yes.” She widened her stance, knees sliding on the sheet, so he could feel the evidence for himself.
He cursed, softly, when he touched her. His fingers parted wet folds, and he wasn’t teasing anymore, it seemed, sliding right in with one finger and setting up a rhythm, thrusting it in and out.
Rose chased it, rocking forward and back, dropping down onto her elbows for leverage.
“Are you good to go?” he asked, voice wrecked.
“Yes. Come on.”
His hand withdrew, and he crowded in close behind her. Gripped her hip tight with one hand, and she knew the other he used to guide his cock, because she felt its blunt pressure at her entrance, and then he was pushing in, all in one go, one long, thorough thrust that left her gasping.
He didn’t make her wait. His other hand found her hip, and he pulled back, and thrust forward again. Again. Slow, but deep, steady, grinding that last scant fraction each time he bottomed out; so deep she felt each motion in her gut, in the base of her throat. She dropped her forehead to the mattress and moved with him, chasing the slow, relentless mounting of pleasure as he rode her.
It was delicious: hard, thorough thrusts that drove her steadily toward orgasm, the friction and heat and the slap of his hips against her ass perfection all on their own, with the promise of even better to follow. So much better than the mad, frantic tangle of earlier.
“I’m close,” she managed, when she was.
“Me, too,” he gritted out. Then he pitched forward, one hand braced beside her, and reached around to touch her clit while his hips continued to thrust, hard and short kicks now.
The pleasure spiked – peaked – orgasm rolled through her like thunder, all electric flashes and deep pulses. She slumped down to the bed; was dimly aware of Lance pulling out, and of his harsh breaths, and of the hot spray on her back as he came all over her.
He stretched out beside her with a groan, hand landing in the middle of the mess he’d left on her spine. “Damn. I’ll get a washcloth.”
“In a second,” she said, turning her face toward him, seeking–
He kissed her, just as she’d wanted, heated, and lazy, and with too much tongue. Rested their foreheads together, after.
Sleep claimed her for the second time that night, and the mess was tomorrow’s problem.
NINE
The Present
Rose heard the door squeal open behind her, and then the sound of footfalls – a heavy, booted tread. Everyone here wore boots, but she knew this particular gait. Knew it well.