“Not for forgiveness.”
Relief, dirty and wrong, pulsed through him. He didn’t want her forgiveness. He wanted her hot, slick cunny wrapped around his cock. He throbbed, he ached, for her to . . . “Fuck me.”
She pulled away and met his eyes. “Did no one ever teach you how to grovel?”
His gaze fixing hers in place, he allowed a heartbeat to pass, then another. “Please.”
A triumphant smile curved one corner of her kiss-crushed lips, and her hand wrapped around his length one deliberate finger at a time until she held him firmly. It was all he could do to keep his hips still, to not press up and into her, to keep his hands fast at his sides and let her control the situation. This night was hers to use him as pleased her.
Unhurriedly, she lowered her body, her bare flesh brushing his throbbing head before lowering to take him in, inch by slick, agonizing inch, until he was fully immersed in her. She went still, her breath ragged, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes drifted shut, intoxicated by her own private nirvana. She’d never looked so unbound, so unknowable.
Eyes closed to any world outside her own, she rose up, then down, a slow, intentional rhythm with every rise and fall of her hips, his shaft a tool for her pleasure. His hands clenched the back edge of the bench as she took him.
Her eyes fluttered half-open. Desire darkened their luminous blue into opaque navy. She reached inside his shirt and gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in deep. Blood surely mixed with the sweat trickling down his spine.
Lust, hot and swift, ignited, and he reached the limit of passive endurance. His fingers found her hips and squeezed. Her legs wrapped around his waist, allowing him further entry until he pushed against the core of her.
“Harder,” she moaned, wild abandon freeing her, him, of the past, the future, freeing them to this moment, this pleasure, pure and raw, blazing and demanding. He thrust his hips and drove inside her in a swift, slick stroke, relentless. Her moan encouraged, begged, pleaded with him, for more, for all he had.
Her head arced back, and her body tensed, suspended, still, except for the relentless thrust of his cock. Her breath came and went in staccato bursts as her body broke and pulsated her release atop him, her quim fluttering in rhythmic pulses around his manhood, all but begging him to follow her lead.
But he wouldn’t. Not yet. He wasn’t done.
In a quick, sure movement, he tightened his grip on her hips and lifted her up and off him. Confusion crinkled her brows together. “But you didn’t—”
He pressed a silencing finger to her lips. “Turn around,” he demanded, more imperious than he had the right to be.
Dark, fierce lust flared her pupils, her irises a thin blue ring, and she obeyed, bending over and bracing herself against smooth stone, her luscious, heart-shaped derriere naked and waiting for him to take her again.
He took his cock in hand, slick and sweet withher, and guided himself into her, and she released the longest, most sultry moan ever to cross a pair of lips. He stroked in, then out, her moans sliding into gasps. Her hands gripped the edge of the stone bench, her back arched, and her sex bloomed more with each thrust of his hips, ready for more, harder, faster.
He and she were nothing more than animals, devoid of reason or concern. This was fucking. They took from each other what was needed. He wanted her to take from him until he had nothing left.
Her gasps became short, hard bursts, as if she’d wound herself into a knot. He drove inside her, again and again. Only he could release her, unbind her. Gasps transformed into aching groans, and he felt her unfold beneath him as her wet, hot pussy seized her, quaking its release around him. This time he had no choice but to follow her to the precipice and over its edge.
He came hard, spending his seed deep inside her, each thrust an intentional branding, a claiming, animal, primitive. She was his. He would have her any way he could get her.
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and his animal nature began to recede, reason and reality, heartbeat by beat, reasserting itself. He glanced down and found himself still joined with her. He never wanted to separate from her. Yet he must.
He stepped back and slipped out of her. With one hand, he reached for the laces of his trousers, and with the other, he tugged her crushed gown over her pale bottom. The fine muscles of her back contracted, one by one, and she straightened. Her dress fell to the ground in a soft shush. It was almost possible to convince himself that what had just happened hadn’t. But why would he want to?
She turned around and braced herself against the bench before sliding to the grass in a graceful cloud of gold and ivory silk, her back supported by white marble. He’d never seen her so gorgeously and thoroughly spent.
“I wish you’d allowed me to land that slap.” Her voice carried to him across crisp night air swirling with the vibrations of a distant raucous mazurka, the antithesis to the quiet and unsettled mood pervading the space around them.
“No, you don’t.”
“Don’t I?”
He lowered his own spent body and settled back onto his elbows. Her gaze seemed determined to fix on the patch of night sky beyond his right shoulder. Now, in the quiet of this rare moment, he must ask a question. “Olivia?”
She must look at him.
“Olivia,” he repeated.
Her gaze, wide and wild, flashed to meet his.
“Marry me.”
