“I don’t do this.” She could feel the fear trying to ease into the pleasure, trying to destroy her acceptance that her body would feel pleasure with such mind-numbing force, that it could ache or want or grow wet for such a touch despite her knowledge of what she would have to leave behind.
“Yet how pretty you are as I pleasure you.” His gaze darkened, his lips pulling back from his teeth to reveal the sharp, overlong canines as her body spilled more of her slick response to his fingers.
His expression was tight with his own pleasure. Yet where he was deriving that pleasure from, Gypsy had no idea. And as his fingers slid through the thick layer of moisture covering her folds to the swollen bud of her clit, Gypsy’s thoughts splintered as a strangled cry of pleasure tore from her lips.
“Your body was made for pleasure,” he crooned, his lips lowering to hers once again, taking brief, hard kisses that kept her aching for more.
His hand moved again, her fingers tightening on his wrist as he stroked from her clit to the entrance of her vagina and back again. Stroking, rubbing at each, sending waves of need clashing through her senses as her hips arched, her body begging for more.
Each stroke of his fingers tightened the pleasure building in her womb, in the tight throb of her clit and the ache in her pussy. She could feel it, like a band tightening between those pleasure points, stretching tighter, the need for more growing with each second.
“Rule,” she moaned, though whether in protest or plea she had no idea. “Please . . .”
She had no idea what she was begging for, what her body was burning for. This was so unlike her own touch or the toys she kept that it was laughable to even compare the two.
This was addictive, brutally ecstatic, and she wondered how she would ever be the same now that she had known it.
With each stroke of his fingers between her thighs, her hips lifted to him, begging for more, aching to be touched deeper, harder.
Pulling back from the narrow entrance to her vagina, his fingers circled her clit, the firm, rubbing caress sending a shower of pure pleasure arcing through her body. The swollen bud throbbed, the ache tightening as Gypsy felt a building wave of sensation threatening to burst through her.
She had never known this could be pleasure.
She had shied away from any man’s touch, pushed would-be lovers behind her and become their friend instead. She had told herself she could do without the touch or the aggravation of a man in her life.
And now, her body was intent on making up for lost time. It was burning in a Breed’s arms, her hips lifting to him, eager for more as he rubbed at the tiny bundle of nerve endings, stroked them, kept her hovering on a pinnacle that became sharper by the second.
“Look at me, Gypsy,” he growled, the rough rumble of demand rasping from his chest as her eyes opened for him.
Dazed, unable to fight past the waves of sizzling sensation building beneath his stroking fingers, she opened her eyes, her gaze locking with his.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, his breathing rough, as harsh as her own. “Let it have you, baby. It’s only pleasure, I promise. Nothing to be frightened of.”
Nothing to be frightened of? Gypsy could feel the waves of control-destroying sensation tightening in every cell of her body. She no longer controlled her own body. She no longer controlled herself, and it was beginning to frighten her.
She had to control this.
She had to know what was coming before she stepped into it.
“No.” The hard growl in his voice had her body jerking as another powerful wave of sensation lashed at her as his voice rasped over her senses. “Stay with me, Gypsy. No fear.”
The stroking, rubbing, diabolical touch of his fingers increased.
Her thighs tightened, his image becoming hazy as she stared up at him, the lashing, heated waves of pleasure growing, becoming hotter, brighter.
Her hips arched to him, her breathing becoming harder, faster.
“Rule . . . please . . .” She was suddenly frightened of where it would take her, how it would change her.
She wanted to pull back, wanted to wait, feel her way through whatever was beginning to tear through her.
“Give to me, Gypsy, just this,” he groaned, the strokes shifting again, tightening.
Her eyes widened.
“I have you, Gypsy,” he promised again. “I’ll hold you right here, I swear.”
She lost her breath.