The Promise in a Kiss (Cynster 0.50)

Lips parted, she breathed quickly, shallowly—she would soon not be able to breathe at all. As if she read his intention in his eyes, he saw hers widen, felt her reach for him.

He glanced down, breathed in; the scent of her sank to his bones as he shifted fractionally lower, used his shoulders to wedge her thighs even farther apart, then let his fingers, drenched with her desire, slide slowly, one last time over her swollen flesh, then away. He bent his head and replaced them with his lips. With his mouth, with his tongue. Clamped his hands about her hips and held her fast as he feasted.

She bucked, had to smother a scream as he searched and found the tight bud of her desire, erect, just waiting for his lips. He paid it due homage, and she writhed, panting, one hand pressed to her lips, the other groping blindly, then falling to grip the sheets convulsively.

He saw no need to rush, to deny either himself or her any of the pleasures to be had. There were many of those; he knew every one. He settled to teach her more.

Helena gasped, panted, fought to smother another shriek. Her senses were overloaded, swamped by the intimacy, the caress of his lips there, the skillful, artful probing of his tongue.

He’d brought her to the breaking point—the threshold beyond which the world fell away and nothing existed bar sensation—before, with his fingers. Now he did the same with his mouth, his lips, his wicked tongue. She knew what was coming, the shattering of her senses and the plunge into the white heat of the void, yet she clenched her fist tight in the sheet and tried to hold it back—tried to ride the tide. The intensity, this time, was frightening.

Yet she was helpless—helpless to stave it off, to deny him.

The rush of heat broke through her walls, caught her, swept her up, high onto a sensual plane of excruciating delight. She sensed his satisfaction, felt his hands tighten, felt the soft brush of his hair on the inside of her thighs as he bent once more to her.

Felt the probe of his tongue as he parted her, the slow glide as he entered her.

Then he thrust.

She shattered. Lost herself. Fell headlong, twisting and turning, into a well of pleasure so deep, so hot, it melted every bone.

She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think.

She could feel more intensely than ever in her life before, feel the heat spread under her skin, feel the ripples of delight spreading through her body.

Feel the broken sigh that fell from her lips as every last muscle gave, relaxed.

With one last, languid lick, he raised his head and surged over her. She could feel, see, take it in, know, even understand, but she couldn’t react. Her muscles were passive. Her body had surrendered.

No resistance.

None as he released his staff from his breeches and set himself to her. As he pressed, tested, then thrust in—just a little. Her eyes had widened at the single glimpse she’d had of him, of his size. Had she been capable of voicing any opinion, she might have said no. But she couldn’t summon even that much will; she could only lie there and experience, feel the pressure build as he pushed in a fraction farther. She sucked in a breath and let her lids drift down, but not before she’d seen him glance at her face. As she concentrated, shifted a little as the next rock of his hips brought pain, she was aware he was watching her reactions, gauging all she felt.

He eased back, not leaving her, but retreating to her entrance. He shifted and drew her knees up, pressed them high. Then he lifted her hips slightly, stuffed a pillow beneath them, then his weight returned, his arms trapping her knees high as he held her.

Held her steady as he pushed into her.

She gasped, arched; his weight held her down. He thrust again, and she cried out, turned her head away. He raised himself over her; the movement pressed him deeper into her, a brand searing into her body. Her next gasp was more a sob.

“No, mignonne—look at me.” He came down on his elbows, framed her face with his hands; gentle but insistent, he turned her face to his. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me—I need to see.”

There was a note in his voice she’d never thought to hear, a plea, guttural and commanding, yet still a plea. She forced herself to do it—to lift her heavy lids, to blink, look into his blue eyes. Felt herself drawn in, felt herself drown in their darkness.

Releasing her face, bracing his arms, he held himself over her. “Stay with me, mignonne.”

His eyes locked with hers, he pressed deeper, deeper. She felt her body give, open, surrender to his assault, even though she wanted to resist; she was still incapable of fighting as he pressed yet deeper into her. She fought to hold his gaze as discomfort turned to pain, and built, built—

Her lids fell, and she gasped, arched hard beneath him.

He drew back and thrust powerfully.

She screamed, the sound muted by his hand clamping over her lips. She pushed it aside and gasped, drew air deep, struggled to comprehend—to make sense of what her senses were relaying.

He couldn’t be that deep inside her.

Eyes wide, she stared into his; the pain faded, and she realized . . . he could.

She shivered, caught her breath, gradually eased back to the bed. It felt . . . very strange.