One with You (Crossfire 5)

“Should’ve kept you dressed,” he said tightly. But his touch said something else. That I was beautiful. Sexy. That I was all he could see.

He pulled away and I cried out, missing his hands.

His eyes were so dark they seemed black. “Offer them to me.”

I shifted on my feet, my sex throbbing. Shrugging, I let my shirt drop, then reached behind me to unclasp my bra. It slid down my arms, freeing me to cup my breasts and lift them up to him.

Bending his head with frustrating patience, Gideon ran the tip of his tongue over my nipple in a slow, unhurried lick. I wanted to scream … hit him … something. Anything to break that maddening restraint.

“Please,” I begged, shameless. “Gideon, please …”

He sucked, hard. Drawing on me with deep rapid pulls, his tongue furiously lashing the sensitive tip. I could smell the animal lust on him, pheromones and testosterone, the scent of a ferociously aroused virile male. It called to me, demanding and possessive. I felt the pull of it, of him. Felt the melting inside me, the surrender.

I swayed and he caught me, tipping me back over his arms and moving to my other breast. His cheeks hollowed with the force of his sucking, my core clenching in rhythm. My spine ached with the strain of the pose I had to hold for him to take his pleasure, and that turned me on to the point of madness.

I’d fought for him. He had killed for me. There was a bond between us, primitive and ancient, that transcended definition. He could take me, use me. I was his. I’d made him wait and he’d allowed me to for reasons I wasn’t sure I knew. But he was reminding me now that I could walk far and try to keep my distance at times, but his hand would always hold the chains that bound us together. And he would pull me back when it suited him, because I belonged to him.

Always mine.

“Don’t wait.” My hands went into his hair. “Fuck me. I need your cock inside me—”

He spun me and bent me over the bed, pinning me down with a hand between my shoulder blades, reaching for the back zipper of my capris. He yanked on the pull, ripping it open and rending the cotton.

“Are you with me?” he growled, shoving his hand into the opening to cup the cheek of my buttock.

“Yes! God, yes …” And he knew it, but he asked. Always making sure to remind me that I had the control, that I gave him permission.

He destroyed my pants getting them down to my knees, using just one hand while the other fisted my hair. He was rough, impatient. He gripped the band of my thong and tugged, the material digging into my skin before breaking with a snap.

He pushed his hand between my bound legs, cupping my sex. My back arched, my body trembling.

“Christ, you’re wet.” He pushed a finger inside me. Pulled out. Pushed in with two. “I’m so fucking hard for you.”

The tender tissues grasped at his plunging fingers. He withdrew, circling my clit, rubbing it. I pressed into his fingertips, seeking the pressure I needed, soft pleading sounds pouring from my throat.

“Don’t come until I’m inside you,” he growled. He grabbed my hips with both hands, pulling me back as he notched the broad head of his cock into my slit.

He paused a moment, breathing hard and loud. Then he shoved inside me. I screamed into the mattress, stretched wide and too full, writhing to accommodate him.

He held me aloft, my feet leaving the floor. He rolled his hips and claimed that last little space inside me, his penis tunneling deep. I squeezed every inch of him, pulsing around him in frantic pleasure.

“Okay?” he bit out, his fingers kneading restlessly into my flesh.

I pushed back with my arms, so close to coming it hurt. “More.”

Through the roaring of blood in my ears I heard him groan my name. His cock swelled and lengthened, jerking as he orgasmed in hard spurts. It felt endless and maybe it was, because he started fucking through his climax, pumping me full of hot, creamy semen. The feel of him coming sparked my orgasm. It rushed over me in powerful spasms, racking my body with violent shudders.

My nails clawed at the comforter, trying to find purchase as Gideon pounded his cock into me, lost in a hot furious rut. The slickness of his semen wet the lips of my sex, then rolled down my legs. He groaned and thrust deep, rolling his hips, screwing into me. He shuddered, coming again, only moments after his first.

Folding over me, Gideon kissed my shoulder, his breath gusting hot and fast over the sweat-slick curve of my back. His chest heaved against my spine, his bruising grip on my hips easing. His hands began to stroke, to soothe. His fingers found my clit and massaged, stirring me, rubbing me into another trembling climax.

His lips moved against my skin. Angel … Over and over he said the word. Brokenly. Desperately. Breathlessly.

Forever yours.

While deep inside me, he remained hard and ready.

I was lying on the bed, tucked against Gideon’s side. My pants were gone and he was nude, his magnificent body still damp with sweat.

My husband lay sprawled on his back, one thickly muscled arm arched over his head, while the other curled beneath and around me, his fingers running absently up and down the length of my torso.

We lay naked atop the sheets, his legs spread, his cock semierect and curving up to his navel. It glistened in the light of the bedside lamps, wet from me and him. His breathing was just beginning to slow, his heartbeat calming beneath my ear. He smelled delicious, like sin and sex and Gideon.

“I don’t remember how we got on the bed,” I murmured, my voice throaty and near hoarse.

Gideon’s chest rumbled with a laugh. Turning his head, he pressed his lips to my forehead.

I curled tighter into him, my arm draping across his waist and holding on tight.

“You good?” he asked softly.

Tipping my head back, I looked at him. He was flushed and sweaty, his hair clinging to his temples and neck. His body was a well-oiled machine, used to the strenuous mixed martial arts he used to condition it. He wasn’t wiped from fucking; he could do that all night, tirelessly. It was the effort of holding back as long as he could, reining himself in until I was as wild for him as he was for me.

“You fucked my brains out.” I smiled, feeling drugged. “My toes and fingers are tingling.”

“I was rough.” He touched my hip. “I bruised you.”

“Umm … ” My eyes closed. “I know.”

I felt him shift, rising, blocking out the light.

“You like that,” he murmured.

I looked up at him leaning over me. I touched his face, tracing his brow and his jaw with my fingertips. “I love your control. It turns me on.”

He caught my fingers in his teeth, then released them. “I know.”

“But when you lose it … ” I sighed, remembering. “It drives me crazy to know I can do that to you, that you want me that much.”

His head dropped, his forehead touching mine. He tugged me closer, making me feel how hard he was again. “More than anything.”

“And you trust me.” In my arms, he let every guard down. The ferocity of his need didn’t hide his vulnerability; it revealed it.

“More than anyone.” He slid over me, covering my body from ankle to shoulder, effortlessly supporting his weight so he didn’t crush me. The sensual pressure made me hot for him all over again.

Tilting his head, Gideon brushed his lips over mine. “Crossfire,” he murmured.

Crossfire was my safeword, what I said to him when I was overwhelmed and needed him to stop whatever he was doing. When he said the word to me, he was overwhelmed, too, but he didn’t want me to stop. For Gideon, Crossfire conveyed a connection deeper than love.

My mouth curved. “I love you, too.”

Wrapping myself around a pillow, I looked toward the closet and listened to the sound of Gideon singing. I smiled ruefully. He was showered and dressing, and obviously feeling energetic despite beginning the morning by screwing me into an orgasm that left me seeing stars.

It took me a moment to recognize the song. When I did, I felt butterflies. “At Last.” Whether it was the Etta James or Beyoncé version he was hearing in his mind didn’t matter. What I heard was his voice, rich and nuanced, singing about seeing blue skies and smiles that cast a spell on him.