There was a glint in his dark eyes that was secretly triumphant. Had he been pleased she’d been with no other man, that he was the only man ever to have her? The thought focused her mind on where they joined; she shuddered, had to close her eyes for a moment, sink her nails into his chest, until the sharp temptation faded and she could pick up her reckless pace again.
She reminded herself of the questions he’d asked. Given his past, strewn with conquests she had not a doubt, had he assumed she would be the same as he? Had he cared in any possessive way about her answer? Or had he asked purely to decide whether to feel guilty or not?
He was watching her closely, pandering, expertly as the tangle of her nerves testified, to her senses, each sweeping touch of his long fingers heightening the delight she received from feeling him, hard, rigid, and hot, sliding into her body. Again, she caught an impression of orchestration; he was focused on her, on ensuring she achieved the maximum pleasure. His pleasure was not incidental, yet secondary and dependent, as least as he saw it.
He was very very good at pleasuring women. She felt the heat rise inside her, felt her nerves tighten. His reins were nowhere near frayed enough.
“You’ve changed,” she gasped, surprised at how thready her voice had become. “You’ve been with dozens of women—are you always like this, devoting yourself to their pleasure first, rather than your own?”
She’d asked the question to distract him, also because she wanted to know. She was surprised to see a hint of wariness creep into his eyes.
“I’ve always liked women.” His hands slid back to her hips, gripped; he started to undulate beneath her. “You know that.”
She did. He had one older sister and three younger; he’d been far more attuned to them than his older brothers had been. The habit of paying attention to women had been his
from an early age.
“Yes, but…” She was clinging to sanity; their combined movements were driving her harder, faster, toward the sun. “That’s not what I meant,” she gasped, “as you well know.”
She sensed he would have sighed, but he couldn’t—their bucking ride was affecting him, too. Those reins, at long last, were unraveling.
Charles dragged his gaze from the junction of her thighs; meeting her eyes, he confirmed that no matter what else was occurring, she was determined to cling to her wits long enough to hear his answer.
He filled his lungs, not easy in the face of all she was doing to him. “With you, it’s different. Not the same. It never was.” He had to pause, had to wait until she released him again, enough so some blood could reach his brain. He gritted his teeth as she sank slowly down again. “No other woman ever made me feel the way you do.”
Her eyes heavy-lidded, she looked down at him, a houri sleek, sultry, and heated. In the candlelight, her skin glowed rosily. “How do I make you feel?”
“Desperate.” He gripped her hips, pulled her fully down on him, and held her there as he thrust into her, once, twice—three times was all it took and the climax that had crept up on her broke and poured through her.
His grip on her hips tightened; every muscle in his body locked as he held back the urge to ravish her. He waited, savoring her contractions, reminding himself to be civilized, or at least not to frighten her, definitely not to hurt her. Finesse, expertise—sanity. All would be useful to deploy…
With a long, low moan, her spine gave way, and she slumped forward, but she crossed her arms on his chest, caught herself on them, met his eyes from bare inches away, fleetingly studied them—then she smiled like a very well satisfied cat, leaned closer, and covered his lips with hers.
The kiss shattered, scattered to the four winds, the control he’d fought to retain. His grip on her hips tightened even more, holding her immobile. He started to move within her again, but no longer with any restraint; with deep powerful surging thrusts, he buried himself in her slick softness.
Her hands rose to frame his face; she matched him kiss for kiss, then pulled back enough to gasp against his lips, “The other way.”
She tried to shift sideways in his arms. He realized she wanted him to roll, to bring her beneath him.
“Why?” Why was he asking? Every muscle in his body had cinched tight at the prospect.
Penny closed her eyes. Because I like feeling you above me, surrounding me. Taking me. Because I enjoy the strength of you moving against me, into me, around me.
Opening her eyes, she met his. “Because I like it that way.”
He didn’t argue, but rolled, taking her with him; his weight pressed her into the soft mattress. He settled his hips between her thighs, and thrust deeply home again. She wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and draped them over his, gripping his flanks with her thighs, angling her hips beneath him. The reins snapped. All of them.
He groaned, found her lips with his, and plunged into her. Rode her harder, faster, deeper than he ever had—even thirteen years ago.
This time she was with him, urging him on, flagrantly taking as much as he would give. Glorying in his wildness. Meeting it with her own.
She didn’t realize how far she’d gone until he sank one hand into her hair, drew her head back, changed the angle of the kiss to one even more plundering, and drove her straight into the fire.
They burned. The dance consumed them, took every last gasp from their bodies, cindered every last sense.
Until they were deaf, blind, far beyond thought.
Until all that was left to them was a holocaust of feeling that burned every vestige of resistance away, that melded and forged them in the fires of passion unrestrained, and at the last gasp left them, wrung out yet replete, sunk, heart to heart, in each other’s arms.