A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Clarice cried out. Beyond thought, beyond concern, beyond everything but sensation. Sensation that poured through her, that with every sharp pull of his mouth on her flesh thrust deeper into her, that with every shift of his hard, muscled, hair-dusted body against hers seared and burned.

She drank it in, embraced it, opened her heart and soul to it. Felt it to her bones, and gloried.

Gloried in being female, in being herself, fully, wholly, completely.

Then he shifted again; releasing one of her hands, he reached down between them, and found her. Touched, stroked, pressed in where she was hot and slick and wet. She gathered herself, her wits, steeling herself to withstand the shattering sensation of his finger boldly entering her.

Instead, his fingers left her. He released her breast; shifting higher up her body, he found her lips again, took them as he gripped her thigh just above her knee and moved it wider, opening her more fully, then he shifted his hips, pressed nearer, and she felt the broad head of his erection press against her.

Slide into her.

Her senses unraveled. She tried to breathe, tried to relax and let it happen, let him in. He pressed deeper. The physical impact was devastating; the onslaught of sensations, all new, all sharp, hot, and searingly exciting, overwhelmed her. Held her completely in thrall, her entire being focused on the slow, heavy, inexorable penetration of his body into hers.

The slow, steady, and inexorable possession.

That realization slid through her, shivered down her spine, made her fingers clench, her nails sinking into his upper arms as her body arched beneath his. Not fought but tried to hold on, to hold back…

His hand slid up her thigh, pressed beneath her and cupped her bottom, gripped and tilted her hips, holding her steady, anchored beneath him for that slow, steady impalement.

And then, with one last thrust, he was there, deep inside her, and she couldn’t catch her breath. A sharp sting was all she’d felt; she hadn’t expected more, but her lungs had seized. What little air she took came through him, through the kiss that suddenly seemed her only anchor in a world transformed. A world where sensation ruled, where pleasure was king, where emotions swirled and eddied, built and surged, and dragged her down.

A world that had closed in to just her and him, joined intimately on the daybed in the moonlight.

He was hard and heavy, potent and so male, so foreign within her. Eyes closed, she clung as he slowly withdrew, then powerfully surged in, sinking deep, then thrusting deeper yet. A sound escaped her, a whimper of pleasure. He repeated the action, even more forcefully, and the sound came again, more definite, more revealing.

She felt his satisfaction, felt his determination to drive her further as if it were tangible, something she could touch.

Then he lowered his body to hers, let her feel his weight, his chest hard, crinkly hair against her swollen breasts, abrading her excruciatingly sensitive nipples as he withdrew and thrust in, setting the pace for a long, steady ride.

The arms her fingers had wrapped around were warm steel, flexing with the rocking of his body into hers, but otherwise solid and unmoving. She held on tight, lungs locked as sensation swelled, welled, then the dam broke and she let passion take her. Let it sweep through her, consume her, drive her body against his in a primitive dance, rising again and again to the escalating rhythm.

Reality fractured. There was no life beyond their shared breaths, beyond the dance of thrust and retreat, of acceptance and release, of need and fire, and the flames of passion that flared and coalesced and drove them.

On. Unrelentingly demanding. Not just him but her, too; her own demands swelled and filled her. She let her body free, let it take him as it would, as he gave himself and took her.

They were matched. Despite the unforgiving, brutally hard body pinning her down, plunging deep, powerfully driving her on, despite the fact that in the presence of his strength she felt so much weaker, despite all the physical advantages he held, she held advantages, too.

Her power showed in his touch, not reverent so much as covetous, in the hunger that drove him, that seemed to well from his soul as he drove himself into her. As if he needed to be there, deep inside, and that need was not physical alone.

That knowledge was hers, instinctive and sure, but understanding was beyond her. The flames grew, roared; sensation built, nerves steadily coiling, tight, then tighter. Hot, then hotter. Then the kaleidoscope of passion and desire swirled about them, swooped and caught them, whipped them high to some pinnacle of earthly bliss, held them there for one bright, indescribably intense instant, then flung them down.

Released them.

Shattered them. Fragmented their senses with that release.

Emptied them.

Of thought, of will, of feeling.

The little death, they called it; she now knew why. But unlike death, in the aftermath came…not feeling, not sensation, but a warm sea of emotion, flooding in, filling her, buoying her.

Blindly, she shifted one hand, found his head on her shoulder, lightly riffled his soft hair. He’d collapsed and lay heavily upon her, pressing her into the bed, totally immobilizing her.

It didn’t matter; she couldn’t move, and his weight felt curiously right.

Just as the whole, first to last, had felt…meant to be.

So easy.