Black Ice (Ice 1)

He unfastened the bra with a flick of his fingers, the same bra she’d struggled to fasten a short while ago, and he pulled it from her body and tossed it. He moved slowly, touching her nipple with his tongue, and she felt it stiffen immediately into a hard, tight knot that matched the hard, tight knot between her legs. She’d never thought her breasts were particularly sensitive, but he seemed to know just how to touch them, suck them, slide his tongue over them until she was shaking with reaction. Just when she thought she was going to climax simply from the feel of his mouth tugging at her breast, his tongue swirling around the tip, he moved down, his mouth dancing across her flat stomach, and his hands slid under the lace straps of the panties and pulled them down her long legs. His mouth followed—on her hips, her legs, the insides of her knees, moving up again, and when he put his mouth between her legs she trembled, reaching for him, threading her hands through his long, thick hair as it fell over her hips.

He cupped her hips, pulling her thighs apart, and his mouth was like nothing she’d ever felt, an invasion, a branding, a claiming that felt so total and absolute that she could do nothing but let him touch her, lick her, bite her, using his mouth in ways she hadn’t imagined, until he slid his fingers inside her, and she arched off the bed in sudden, rigid climax that was fast and hard and like nothing she’d ever felt.

It was fast, it was short, and she sank back, breathless, only to have him start it all over again, building slowly, gently, into a greater intensity so that when he slid his fingers inside her she cried out this time, and the orgasm held for longer. As long as he seemed to want to hold it.

She collapsed back on the bed, panting, shaken, and reached out to touch his face. “No more,” she whispered. “I can’t…”

“Of course you can,” he whispered between her thighs. This time the simple touch of his tongue sent her into spasms, and the shocking feel of his fingers finished her. She thought she screamed, she who usually made love in discreet silence, but it didn’t matter, since he was prepared, covering her mouth with his hand, so that her cries fell into his skin and nowhere else.

And that final freedom made it complete. She didn’t have to hold anything back, she could scream, she could cry, and could simply let go of her body and let it happen, let him do whatever he wanted, and she gave in willingly, ready to vanish into a thick maelstrom of unimaginable power.

When she fell back on the bed in a mindless, boneless heap he moved his hand from her mouth, falling back beside her, his heavy breathing matching her own, as she slowly started to come down from the inexpressible power of her climax. She lay on her back, eyes closed, listening to him, feeling him lying beside her, exactly where he should be, as her racing heart slowed infinitesimally.

“Sleep now, Chloe,” he whispered, his voice soft, soothing.

The lassitude vanished. Her eyes shot open, and she turned her head to look at him. He lay on his back, seemingly at ease, still fully dressed, the murky light drifting across him.

She spent one moment considering the possibilities. That he didn’t want her, had no need of her or her body, had only given her what he’d promised without giving anything of himself. And then she ignored it. If they were going to die, she wasn’t going to waste another moment on a rash of stupid insecurities.

She rose on one elbow, looking at him. Her muscles trembled slightly under her, but she ignored her unexpected weakness. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t open his eyes, the rat bastard. “Sleeping,” he said.

“No,” she said. “You’re not.” And she reached over and began unfastening the row of black shell buttons on his shirt.

One hand came up and caught hers, stopping her once more, but she wasn’t about to be distracted. “Let go of my hand,” she said. “We’re not finished here.”

“I am.”

She pulled her hand free, slid it down his stomach to touch him. Hard, pulsing, through the black pants. “No, you’re not,” she said, as she began to unbuckle his belt. “And neither am I.”

“Chloe…”

“Shut up,” she said ruthlessly, and she freed him, leaned over and put her mouth on him.

He was cool and smooth and silken, hard as ice in her mouth, and she had no idea where the pleasure came from that filled her as she let her mouth learn him. She only knew it made her tremble with its strength.

He’d stopped arguing. She reached a hand up to blindly rip at his shirt, but he was helping her now, unbuttoning it and pulling it off, and then his hands cupped her head, and he talked to her, whispered words in gutter French as she slowly sucked and pulled at him with her mouth, and she was sweating, shaking with the power of the response she was drawing from him, when he suddenly pulled her away, moving back against the head of the huge old bed, kicking the rest of his clothes onto the floor so that he was now as naked, as ready as she was.

“If you really want me, Chloe, you have to take me,” he said.

She sat back on her heels to look at him. And then she put her hands on his shoulders, the smooth, strong skin, and climbed on top of him, straddling him as he sat there on the bed.

She felt momentarily self-conscious. “I’ve never done this…” she said.

“Good.” He pulled her the rest of the way, positioning her over him, moving so that she could feel the head of his cock just touching her. “Now it’s up to you.”

She moved, just enough to let him enter her, and a look of almost exquisite pleasure crossed his face, and his quick intake of breath was so erotic that she pushed down, so that he filled her, so deep, so tight that she almost climaxed again.

He’d closed his eyes, but his long fingers were clutching her hips, and only the slightest pressure made her move, rise up, then slowly down again, and his guttural groan seemed to vibrate inside her own body. She rested her forehead on his shoulder as she moved, he moved, together, the rise and fall, deep and hard, and he was talking to her, telling her lies that she wanted to believe, all in French, words of praise and love and sex and the dark, spiraling need that suddenly flamed out of control as he exploded inside her. And without expecting it she lost the last tiny bit of self-control, following, and she was sobbing quietly against his skin, shaking with the force of their joining, until she collapsed against him, gasping for breath.

She didn’t know what she expected. Not that he would turn, with her still tight in his arms, stretching her out beneath his strong body, and she knew that even though he’d climaxed inside her he was still hard, getting harder, and she didn’t think she could bear it, as s

he wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in deeper still, the words long gone.

She didn’t need to speak, he was kissing her again, fucking her again, and she simply gave into it, a holy wash of sin and redemption, and the snowy darkness closed around her, and time lost its meaning.

And there was nothing left between them but love, neither pure nor simple, but love it was.