There’s heat.
Oh, sweet hell, the heat!
It comes at me so hot and intense and wild I’m gone in what seems like a minute.
My legs start shaking as he pounds me into the mattress, hugging him for dear life, under him but riding his entire frame like he’s this huge, otherworldly thing sent here to sex me into oblivion.
There’s no other word for it.
Not when my eyes pinch shut and I’m tossing my head, digging my heels into his strong thighs as he goes faster, harder, wilder.
Coming!
It hits like the morning sun squeezed into a single flash of lightning.
Every muscle, every breath, every morsel of me goes electric for Flint Calum.
There’s just the ragged sound of my own breathing, the slap of his balls on my skin, the feeling of his ginormous cock lifting me up and down. One punishing stroke after the next, straight to ecstasy.
My clit hurts so good, the friction of his pubic bone grinding down with every thrust.
Is it any surprise I come so long and so hard? I’m almost blacking out.
It’s the slower sway of his hips that wakes me from my sex-crazed stupor. And his voice.
“Roll over for me, honey. Gonna take you harder from behind.”
Harder? Is he kidding? Is he—
Yep.
His cock almost splits me in two a second time the instant I’m on my knees, turned over, butt up and prone for him to mount me like he’s gone into full rut.
I feel like I’m riding the ocean. Rolling, rocking, drifting higher and higher, searching for that hundred-foot-high crest wave that I know is only moments away.
I couldn’t tell you what puts me over the edge again to save my life.
His hands, white-knuckle grabbing my ass, holding me down while he drives in again and again.
His fist, tangled in my hair, winding it around and around and pulling with just the right pressure while my legs convulse.
His roar. Loud and wild and free as a waterfall. He lets out this breathless grunt, driving into me after I’ve come two more times, closing in on his own release.
When it comes, of course it’s freaking glorious.
There’s just that deep dark grinding in his chest, exploding into a full masculine scream.
Then the swell of his cock, the insane heat of his thrusts and his friction on my clit, the liquid fire jetting out of him.
His seed could do bad, bad things to a woman.
And I want him to do them all to me as he floods my pussy, holds me down, almost like it’s some crazy, forgotten mating ritual meant to mark me for life.
Holyyy shit!
It’s no surprise I come, one frenzied O melding into his.
Passion so lush, so hot, I couldn’t have dreamed it.
Best of all, he’s right.
By the time he’s taken me several more times just like that, long into the evening, barely stopping for a break, it’s a miracle I can even remember my own freaking name.
I’m thoroughly addicted to this man.
And I get a second wind just when I think he might be spent, using my mouth to work his cock up, winding my tongue around these spots that make him twitch.
His huge chest rises and falls, his rough fingers laced through my hair, a question on his lips.
“Fucking shit, baby girl. What did you do to me?” He genuinely wants to know.
But the only answer is to drive my lips down, faster and tighter on his lovely shaft, gently squeezing his balls. His breathing goes to tatters. His chest ripples like a mountain moving, and a minute later, he comes so hard in my mouth I’ll be tasting him for days.
Later, it starts sinking in, when I’m slack on the bed, tucked into the nook of his arm and completely boneless.
This man is my amnesia. The good kind.
My cure for everything wrong.
And I can’t even help falling way too hard, too fast, and too beautifully for those sea glass blue eyes that glow like torchlit paths to my future.
* * *
I still don’t have the energy to even open my eyes when Flint wakes me up for dinner.
I don’t know how he finds the energy to cook, but he moves like he’s on cloud nine. And just like everything else, his seafood stew is divine, this succulent dish of tender fish, Hawaiian lobster, and mussels in a broth so savory I’m sure it’s illegal somewhere.
We eat it with long, toasted planks of buttery bread and a bottle of delicate white wine.
Back in bed, after supper, I flop down next to him. It’s not even a question whose room I’m sleeping in tonight.
“You are amazing. You know that, right?” I whisper.
He chuckles, props an elbow on the pillow beside me, and kisses my forehead. “Think it’s the other way around. It’s a rare, sweet thing finding this kind of bliss in a storm, babe.”