Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)
She should have ordered him to stop, to lie still. She didn’t. Breath sawing in her throat, she arched back; head up, arms crossed behind, her hair a wild cascade about her, eyes closed, she gave herself up to the bucking ride, to the overwhelming pleasure, and rode him hard, then harder.
It still wasn’t enough; she needed him deeper.
She sobbed, slowed, desperate…
He swore. Surged up from the waist, his bound wrists passing over her head, trapping her within the circle of his arms. Turning his palms, setting them to her back, his gaze locked with hers, he shifted between her thighs, then thrust up harder, deeper, higher with her.
He settled to a solid, heavy rhythm. His gaze lowered to her lips, inches from his. “You’re still in control.” He glanced up, caught her gaze. “Tell me if you like this.”
He bent, set his lips to her ruched nipple. She cried out. He suckled; she gasped. Sinking her hands in his hair, she held him to her. Held him while he rocked her, pleasured
her, while they came together and the sounds and scents of their joining wreathed through her brain, filling, reassuring, exciting.
She wanted more.
More of him.
All of him.
She wanted what he did.
Catching his head between her hands, she urged him to look up.
When he did, dark eyes heavy-lidded, lips rich, fine, wicked, she caught his gaze. Gasped, “Enough. Take me. Finish this.”
His steady thrusting between her thighs didn’t ease. He looked deep. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Surer than of anything in the world. Slowing her own rhythm, she lost herself in his eyes. “However you wish, however you want.”
For one long moment, he held her gaze.
Then she was on her back, flung across his bed, clinging to sanity as with her thighs pressed wide, his bound hands beneath her head, palms cradling it, he thrust into her body, hard, deep—
Sanity fractured and she flew apart.
Royce gasped, fought to hold still so he could savor her release, but the contractions were so strong they ruthlessly, relentlessly drew him on, until with a muffled roar he followed her into oblivion, his release, so long denied, rolling over and through him, powerfully raking him, wrecking him, leaving him drained, a husk buoyed on a welling emotional tide, coming back to life as glory seeped in, and filled him.
As his heart swelled, and he drew in a shuddering breath, through the haze in his brain, he felt her lips caress his temple.
“Thank you.”
The words were a ghost of a whisper, but he heard, slowly smiled.
She had it arse over tit; it was he who should thank her.
A significant time later, he finally summoned sufficient strength to lift from her, roll onto his back, and with his teeth pick apart the knot at his wrists.
She lay slumped alongside him, but she wasn’t asleep. Still smiling, he scooped her up, dragged down the covers, then collapsed on the pillows, arranged her in his arms, and tugged the covers over them.
Without a word, she snuggled against him, all but boneless.
Pleasure, of a depth and quality he’d never thought to feel, rolled over and through him. And sank to his bones.
Tilting his head, he looked into her face. “Did I pass your test?”
“Humph. Somewhere through all that”—she waved weakly toward the end of the bed—“I realized it was a test for me as much as you.”
His lips curved more deeply; he’d wondered if she’d seen that.