Dark Room (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 2)

Together, they dropped down on the air mattress, the fleece blanket that covered it a warm, soft nest beneath them. They tugged at each other’s clothes, pulling sweaters over heads, unsnapping and unzipping jeans, and struggling with socks and boots. Lane unclasped her bra, and Morgan shrugged out of it, her progress slowed by Lane hooking his arm under her back, arching her up to his mouth to give him free access to her breasts. His lips closed around each taut nipple, tugging with his lips, lashing with his tongue, until Morgan cried out in frustration. She shoved at his shoulders until he released her. Then she wriggled free of the impeding bra, tossed it to the floor.

Lane’s hot gaze burned over her, through her, and he drew a rough breath, reaching down to make quick work of her thong. His fingers lingered for a moment, caressing her thighs, between her thighs, slipping up and inside her.

It was good—too damned good.

Neither of them could stand it another minute.

Lane dragged himself away just long enough to shed his briefs and kick them aside. Then he leaned down, lifted Morgan slightly so he could peel back the blanket, place her on the flannel sheet beneath it.

Then he was on her, covering her, his body pressing hers into the mattress.

The world stopped at the first contact of their naked skin.

Morgan made an inarticulate sound of pleasure, instinctively lifting herself closer, rubbing her breasts against his chest, creating exquisite friction as his crisp hair rasped across her nipples.

Lane went rigid, a hard tremor vibrating through him, and he forced out his words in a rough, unsteady voice. “Keep that up and this is going to be over way too fast.”

Her fingertips traced his spine. “I can’t wait for slow.”

“Morgan.” He caught her head between his hands, his mouth plundering hers in a scalding kiss. He kept kissing her, but his hands shifted, slid over the curves of her body until they reached her thighs. His fingers curled around them, and his fingertips trailed lightly over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, absorbing the tiny quivers he created.

Restlessly, she squirmed, parting her thighs wider, and his erection slid lower, pulsing against her core, finding the opening of her body and probing.

She arched to accommodate him. He hooked his arms under her knees, angling her for the deepest penetration possible. He tore his mouth from hers, and their gazes met, fiery and urgent.

“Now,” she breathed.

“Now’s not soon enough.” He was already pushing into her, stretching her as he did, creating a friction that was so complete, so utterly perfect, that she moaned, her head tossing on the pillow.

Lane paused, the muscles in his arms trembling with the effort of holding back. “Is it too much?”

“No. God…no.” She pushed at the base of his spine.

“You’re tight,” he ground out.

“I’m dying,” she gasped back. “Lane…” Her inner muscles clenching around him.

“Damn.” He gave it up. “I’ve got to get inside you.” In one inexorable push, he was all the way there.

They both sucked in their breath.

Then Lane began to move, ignoring the screaming dictates of his body. He was determined to prolong the experience, to make every sensation last, and he paced himself, thrusting into her in deep, slow strokes.

Morgan understood, and her body met and matched his rhythm. Everything inside her was clamoring for release, but she tamped down on her own urgency, equally intent on sustaining this incredible feeling for as long as possible.

It built, escalated, until restraint was no longer an option.

Lane let it go, giving in to what he needed, what they both needed. He said her name, first in a guttural whisper, then in a shout as he pounded into her, felt the clenching spasms of her climax begin, heightening as he pushed deeper, farther inside her.

She cried out—a wild, shocked cry of completion—and totally unraveled, her inner muscles contracting again and again. Lane poured into her, coming in hard spasms that shook him to the core, drained every drop of him.

Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in shallow rasps, his body drenched in sweat. He was fairly sure he’d never move again. Beneath him, Morgan went limp, her arms and legs going slack, sliding to the mattress. She was still quivering with tiny aftershocks, and her heart was racing as she dragged air into her lungs.

Lane knew he was too heavy for her, that he should shift his weight, but his body just wouldn’t comply.

“I’m hurting you,” he managed hoarsely, his lips in her hair.

“No.” The word was barely a whisper, but she punctuated it with a slight shake of her head so Lane knew he hadn’t imagined it.