Then he pressed her back, reached for her leg, lifting to curl it over his hip.
“No—wait.” Head pressed back into the pillows, Madeline got the words out, breathless, weak, but he heard. Her hand splayed on his chest, she never would have been able to hold him back, but he halted, stopped.
Met her eyes.
The undisguised desire she saw burning in his made her smile, made her determination to have her own way stronger, more acute. More necessary.
Lifting her hand, she framed his jaw—sensed them both battling to hold back the welling tide. Their breaths mingled, ragged, harsh, close to desperate. Their lips, separated by mere inches, throbbed. “Let me.”
She said the words, saw them register, saw confusion cloud his eyes.
“But tonight—”
“Is my night.” She held his gaze. “And this”—with her body she pushed against him to roll him back—“is what I want.”
For an instant he didn’t move, didn’t budge despite her weight, but then he gave way, surrendered, and rolled onto his back.
She smiled and followed.
He met her eyes as he settled back, head on the pillows, large heavy body stretched out on her white sheets half beneath her.
She held his gaze, and knew he understood.
What followed was the gift she chose, that above all others she had wanted. It was she who was in charge, she who set the pace, he who consigned the reins into her keeping and let her do as she willed
. As she wished.
Let her caress him, let her fill her senses, her mind, her soul with him.
Let her hands roam his chest, his ridged abdomen, his hips, spreading fire beneath skin already scorching.
Let her move upon and around and over him, hands, fingers, mouth, tongue, silken limbs, her silky hair, all part of her symphony of sensation.
All part of her devotion, her claiming.
In this, she had no measure—no yardstick, no plan. She moved to the beat of that different drum, her heart, her senses, her soul in tune. She gave herself over to it, gave herself up to him, and stinted nothing in the giving.
She gave him all, surrendered all, until she held them, his awareness and hers, in the palm of her hand.
They caught their breath. Held it.
Then together forged on, let her stretch the moments out until they were both frantic, until desperation gripped him as powerfully as it seized her. Until passion was a sharp-clawed beast howling through them both—until she rose up and took him in.
Until she straddled him and sheathed his hard length in her scalding softness, sinking down slowly, lids falling, breath bated, taking him inside her deep, then deeper, until she had him all.
Until she possessed him all.
Then she rode him.
Through the night slowly, through the moonlit shadows, clinging, both of them, to the very edge of control.
Walking a knife edge.
Riding a path at the very edge of their cliff, so close to oblivion each moment was dizzying, lungs locked so tight they could barely breathe. Pausing, when it all became too fraught, too intense, too much, to kiss, to, fingers linked, tightly clasping, catch their breath…until they could ride on.
Higher.
And higher.