Ignited (Most Wanted 3)

"I like that," Cole said, running a finger over my skin. "I like seeing you anticipating. Nervous. Excited."

"I am," I said.

"Too much for you?"

"Not even close," I assured him, then almost melted in the long, slow burn of his smile.

I thought he would say something else, but all he did was tell me to bend over his knee. I felt a little silly, but that soon faded under the sting of his palm against my bare ass. I cried out, then sucked in air through my teeth as a warm tingly sensation spread through me, helped along by the soothing circles he stroked with his hand.

"I thought you would use a paddle or something."

"And deny myself the pleasure of striking such beautiful flesh?" he asked, even as he landed another blow. Then another and then another. By the time he had given me eight solid smacks on the ass, I was so close I was certain that one more paddle would push me over the edge and send me tumbling into a chasm that I hadn't entered in over a decade.

He stopped, though, leaving me turned on and bereft and confused.

He chuckled, obviously reading my expression. "You like it," he said. It was a statement, not a question, but I nodded agreement anyway.

"Here," he said, then drew me down to the floor and onto a soft, plush area rug. "I have to taste you."

I expected him to have me lay down, then spread my legs. Instead, he was the one with his back on the floor. I straddled his face, spreading my legs so wide that the stretch almost hurt. Pain, he'd said, and he was right. But there was something about this position. About the pain in my inner thighs. About the angle with which his tongue flicked at my clit. About the way his left hand caressed my ass, soothing the still-stinging skin, and occasionally pressing me forward so that he could suck hard on my clit or fuck me deeply with his tongue.

And there was the way he reached up, found my breast, and twisted my nipple in time with the way his tongue teased my sex.

All in all he was a one-man symphony, giving pleasure with the licks and strokes. Giving pain with the twists to my nipples, the small spanks, and even the sharp nips of teeth against my overly sensitive clit.

Like a symphony, the pain and the pleasure rose, dark and light, swirling and spinning. Building to a sensational climax.

Unlike a symphony, I didn't know if we would ever reach those ultimate heights. After all, I never had before with a guy, and despite everything that had happened tonight--all the new sensations, and all these glorious new experiences--at the end of the day, an orgasm was still an orgasm, and I couldn't escape the memories and shame that were tied up with letting that sorry bastard take me there.

But Cole wasn't him. And he never could be. Cole wasn't a sneak or a worm. Cole demanded what he wanted; he didn't steal it like a thief in the night.

When Cole touched me, it didn't make me want to hide. Instead, it lifted me up.

I thought of Cole. Of his mouth on my clit. Of his fingers on my nipple. Of the pleasure he was shooting through me.

I thought of him and I flew a little bit higher and wondered if, really, this could be possible.

And when I heard his voice--that demand-filled, no-nonsense voice--telling me to "come, come now, Catalina," I reached out with all my might, thrust my hand into the nearest star, and knew that it was a day for miracles.

Because even as my mind tried to fathom this inconceivable truth--even as Cole cried out my name and urged me to go over now, now, now--my body shattered into a billion points of light that shimmered and burst and sparkled and shimmied. And then, finally, were still and satisfied.

And, most of all, content.

eleven

Cole's arms were tight around me, my back pressed to his front, my ass nestled tight against him. I felt warm and safe and satisfied, but something wasn't quite right.

It took me a moment to realize that I was hearing Cole's voice. Low and worried, telling me that it was okay, that I was fine.

The concern in his voice confused me--until I realized that slow tears were rolling down my cheeks, and when I drew in a startled breath, I tasted salt water.

"No," I whispered. He'd untied my hands, and now I shifted so that I could lift a hand and wipe away the tears. "No, I'm fine. I'm more than fine." I rolled over in his arms, saw the unease in his eyes, and wanted to cry for real. "They're not bad tears," I promised, then pressed my lips gently to his. "I feel wonderful. You're wonderful."

His brow furrowed, as if he was debating whether or not to believe me, and the raw emotion I saw there was so sweet and genuine it made me smile. More than that, it made me laugh, then lean in and press a wet, salty kiss to his lips.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Now the concern just looked like confusion. "For what?"

For caring. For being here. For everything.

I didn't say any of that, though. Instead I just brushed another kiss over his lips, drew in a breath, and gathered the courage to tell him the one thing that I had never shared with another living soul.

"I haven't--you know--with a guy in, well, never."

That wasn't entirely accurate, but I wasn't ready to tell him the entire truth.

"Slept with?"

"Come," I said, as my cheeks burned. I focused on his shoulder. On the ink work on that stunning dragon wing. Because I damn sure couldn't meet his eyes. "You know. Climaxed. Had an orgasm." I lifted a shoulder as if this were no big deal and I wasn't utterly and completely mortified.

But I still didn't look at him.

"Tell me," he said, in a voice as gentle as a breeze.

"I just did."

"Tell me why not."

I shrugged, then looked away so as not to let him see the lie on my face. "It's just the way I'm wired."

He was silent for a moment, his huge hand gently stroking my hair. And despite the awkwardness, in that moment I felt cherished. And when he finally spoke, I felt desired. "Whatever men you've slept with have been missing out. You're beautiful when you come."

"You're going to make me cry again." My smile was tremulous but completely genuine. "I think that may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."

He chuckled. "If that's the case, I'll have to do better. You deserve more romance than that."

My chest tightened, and I grappled for words. I couldn't find them, though. No combination of sounds could adequately express what was in my heart. Because how could I tell him that he filled me up? That there was so much more to him than what I'd seen over the years.

He was a mix of hard lines and angles, of soft colors and tenderness. He was like some of the art that hung in his gallery--a blend of so many elements that you're surprised you like it because it almost seems like too much. And yet it all makes up the whole, and if you took any part away, the entire image would fall apart.

"You're staring," he said to me, his eyes narrow and mocking.

I grinned, feeling foolishly giddy. "Maybe I like looking at you."

"That makes two of us," he said. "Turn around."

I did, and he pulled me close again, spooning against me as we lay on the thick, warm rug.

He traced his finger over my bare hip, then along my waist. The sensation made me tremble, and I sighed as my body fired under his ministrations. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked the curve of my breast, then teased my nipples until both were tight and hard and begging to be touched.

He didn't satisfy, though. Instead, he continued upward, finally tracing my bottom lip and then, ever so gently, urging my mouth open.

I closed my eyes and drew him in, sucking hard, teasing his finger with my tongue even as the desire spilled through me, as if his finger were on the pulse of all my erogenous zones.

I heard him moan, felt his cock twitch against my ass. "Someday," he said. "I'm taking you here, too."

"Yes," I said, even as my body tightened and warmed at the thought. "Anything," I said. "Everything."

"And just so we're clear," he added, his mouth so close to my ear that I

felt the tickle of his breath against me, "if I'm fucking you, you're not fucking anyone else. Do you understand?"

"Of course," I said, and felt a small pang of pleasure at the realization that, at least for the moment, Cole August had claimed me as his own.

"Good."

I realized I was smiling so broadly my cheeks hurt. I rolled over to face him again, then pushed him onto his back.

"Feeling playful?" he asked.

"Hush," I said. "I have a plan."

I straddled him, feeling decadent as I settled myself so that my sex rubbed against his crotch, his wiry pubic hair teasing and tickling in a way that was seriously designed to drive me crazy.

And when I felt his cock twitch in obvious interest, a burst of feminine power shot through me, too.

"Something on your mind, baby girl?"

"I told you I could handle it," I said smugly. "Could handle you."

"So you did." He slid his hand down so that his fingers were at my sex, then started to idly play with me. Since that seemed like an absolutely delicious plan, I shifted my hips to give him better access. Immediately, he stopped.

I lifted a brow.

"Go ahead," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Go ahead? You're the one who stopped."

"My hand is still right there, all ready to be put to good use--unless you'd rather use your own?"

I squinted, not entirely sure what he meant.