Lover Reborn (Black Dagger Brotherhood 10)

Tohrment was anything but, however.

He seemed sharp as a blade, his muscles straining now not just in his hips but his whole body, from his biceps to his abdominals - even his feet beneath the sheeting stood up straight.

His other hand, the one that had been stroking her, returned to below his waist. "I think you'd better go. "

His voice was so deep, she frowned as she tried to decipher the words. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No, but I'm about to. " He grit his white teeth as his hips moved up and back under the sheet. "I have to. . . Fuck. "

And that was when his meaning became clear.

"No'One, please. . . I've got to. . . I can't keep it back much longer. . . . "

His massive body was so beautiful in this particular agony: Even though he was bloodied and wounded and bruised, there was something undeniably sexual about the way he ground his teeth and arched upon the table.

For a moment, her nightmare with the symphath threatened to come back, terror trying to gain traction at the edge of her consciousness. But then Tohrment moaned and bit down on his lower lip, those long white canines tearing into the soft pink flesh.

"I do not want to go," she said roughly.

His face squeezed up tight, another curse breaching his lips. "You stay and you're going to have a hell of a show. "

"So. . . show me. "

That got his attenti

on, his eyes snapping back to hers, his body freezing. As he blinked, he did not otherwise move.

In a harsh tone, he blurted, "I'm going to make myself come. Do you know what that means? Orgasm?"

Thank the Virgin Scribe for the chair, No'One thought. Because between that graveled voice, and his heady scent, and the erotic way he was holding on to himself, even her good leg had no strength to support what little weight she had.

"No'One, do you understand?"

The part of her that had woken up was what answered: "Yes. I do. And I want to watch. "

He shook his head as if he intended to argue. Except then he said no more.

"Ease yourself, warrior," she told him.

"Oh, Jesus. . . "

"Now. "

As she commanded him, a thrall appeared to come over him: Below his waist, under the sheeting, one of his knees came up toward his body, his thighs splitting wide as his grip secured that vital place that defined him as uniquely male.

What happened next defied description. He worked himself against the balled sheeting, rolling his hips, pushing down, his body gathering momentum -

Oh, the sounds: from the rasp of his breath to his moans to the squeak from under the table.

This was the male animal in the throes of passion.

And there was no going back.

For either of them.

Faster. Greater pressure with his hands, until his chest stood out, the anatomy appearing carved, rather than made of flesh. And then he cursed in an explosion of breath and jerked up against the grasp he had on his sex. His spasms had her clutching her own chest and breathing in a pant, as if what was happening to him was replicated within her own form. Indeed, what miracle was this? Tohrment appeared to be in pain, and yet showed no evidence of wanting what racked him to end - if anything, he drew it out, shifting his hips ever more.

Until it was done.