All Tied Up

Constantine wasn’t in the mood to be teased. Not anymore. He found the edge of the mattress with his knees. Before she knew his intentions, she was on her stomach.

His hands braced on either side of her head, his face buried in her neck, cock brushing that lush backside. “My way,” he murmured, his nostrils flaring with the sweet scent of her arousal. “You’ll like my way, just wait and see.”

Slowly, he eased back to his knees, one hand on her lower back in case she decided to turn, the other giving her backside a tiny little slap. Not hard. Just enough to let her know who was in charge.

She pushed up on her hands. “Hey—” The objection became a soft moan as his one palm slid under her stomach, lifting and holding her hips even as he slid a finger across the slick wet heat between her legs, parting her swollen lips. He stroked her sensitive skin, preparing her a moment before sliding his finger inside her.

Her arms went limp, fingers curling in the blanket covering the mattress. A soft moan came purring from that full mouth that had been on his cock only minutes before. He moved the hand he held on her stomach, sliding it to her clit, tweaking and flicking, the action encouraging her hips to arch upward.

Her ass tilted up, giving him better access, inviting him to explore more. He palmed her cheeks, taking a moment to admire that stellar ass in the air before he rotated to lie on his back. He scooted beneath her hips until he found his target. He lapped at her clit and then suckled it. She bucked against him, moving with his actions.

While some women might have stayed on their stomachs, Nicole wasn’t one of them. Nor had he expected her to be. She pushed to her hands and knees, but not to escape. She wanted more, spreading her legs, and rocked with the thrust of his tongue. Constantine licked and teased. Her clit was swollen, the delicious honey of her body proof of her nearing orgasm. But just when he thought she’d surely go over the edge, she moved.

Suddenly, Nicole was straddling him. A second later, she took him inside her, surprising and pleasing him all in one action. In unison, they moaned with the impact of her taking his shaft deep inside her body, warm, wet heat consuming him.

She braced her hands on his chest, her voice raspy. “We’re trying to get to ‘even,’ right? You didn’t come without me. I didn’t want to come without you.”

She had wrapped her actions in a sexual taunt, but there was more to it than that. The give-and-take, the status of “even” rather than of one defeating the other—something about that touched him on an emotional level and shifted the mood.

As if she sensed that and it scared her, she quickly whispered, “That doesn’t mean I don’t hate you,” as her hips worked his cock in a slow, circular tease of a motion. He watched her, enjoying the way her breasts bounced ever-so-slightly with the gentle movement, a visual pleasure, like the rest of her lush body.

“You don’t hate me,” he said, her actions proving just the opposite.

“I might,” she whispered again, but her eyes locked with his, full of intimacy that reached deeper than their connected bodies.

“Don’t,” he told her firmly. “Don’t hate me.”

His words altered the mood further, and with the suddenness of a lightning strike in a summer storm, all their power plays, all their games, simply evaporated. Their bodies stilled. There was only this—only the two of them. Perhaps, the uneasiness of their futures, of the way this race for their lives would end, contributed to their feelings. Their connection deepened beyond the physical.

They moved as one. She leaned down as he reached for her. Their lips met in a kiss that was tender, passionate, their tongues stroking, caressing, tasting. Their bodies began a slow dance that matched the rhythm of their tongues. He murmured her name. She murmured his. Their hands explored. He felt her every breath, tasted her every moan. And reveled in the gasp that came a second before her orgasm.

She tensed, burying her face in his neck, her sex spasming around his cock, wet heat begging him to pump harder, deeper. He gave her what she wanted, what he, too, wanted. One hand on her back, he pressed her tight against his body even as he lifted his hips. Suddenly, he exploded, pleasure inching through his groin with an intensity that shook him from head to toe.

Later, they lay there, sated for the time being. She was soft and delicate in his arms. He still wanted her, he realized, arousal forming yet again—his desire to take her was nowhere near depleted. His idea that having her would satisfy his need for her hadn’t worked. But even more concerning was what he felt. There was more in the air than good sex. The air crackled with an emotional awareness that he suspected had taken her by surprise as much as it had him. He wasn’t a man that did relationships. His career simply didn’t allow it. So why wasn’t he moving? Why did he want to hold her, to make love to her again?