Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

He had always prided himself on his control. In business. In sex. In all aspects of his life. Where was that control now? He was a man standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing that once he launched himself into the unknown, there might not be a way back.

Slowly, he told himself, go slowly.

He stroked her again, his fingers whispering over her clitoris. She dug her hands into his hair.

“Marco.”

Had his name ever sounded so right?

“Marco.” Her voice trembled. “Please. Please. Please…”

She moved against him. Against his hand.

His mind blanked to everything but this.

This, he thought, as he reached between them and zipped open his fly.

This, he thought as he stumbled back against a silk-covered wall.

This, he thought, and he drove into her.

She came instantly, her muscles convulsing around him, his name a cry that pierced the silence.

The night spun around him.

“Oh God,” she sobbed, “oh God, oh God, oh God…”

He clasped the back of her head and brought her lips to his, kissed her as he rocked into her again and again. He felt the second orgasm race through her, heard her cry his name against his mouth.

He wanted the moment to last forever but it couldn’t, it wouldn’t; inside his scrotum, his belly, he could feel his own release building, the ultimate essence of life.

“Now,” he groaned, and she buried her face against his throat, bit him with the fierce delicacy of a tigress as she came again, as he gave himself up to the whirlwind and exploded inside her.

A final tremor swept through her. Boneless, she collapsed against him and he stood absolutely still, just holding her, feeling her, breathing her in.

After a very long time—an hour, a lifetime—she lifted her head. He kissed her, a sweet kiss that made her sigh.

Slowly, he eased her down his body. Her feet touched the cool marble floor. She swayed and he gathered her against him.

“Cara,” he said softly. “Cara mia.”

She shook her head. Her hair tumbled forward, hiding her face. Tension gripped his body.

“Sweetheart. What is it?”

She shook her head again. He slid one hand over her cheek. Her jaw. Cupped it, lifted her face to his.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

His heart constricted.

“Was I too fast? Too rough?”

Another shake of her head. Her hair slid across his fingers, silken and scented. He caught a strand and brought it to his lips.

“You were—you were wonderful.”

He felt a little stab of pride at her softly spoken words.