Then he reached up to unhook her bra so that he could slide his hands to her front and cup her breasts, gliding his thumbs across the hardened crests.
“Oh.”
He bent to kiss her again, his goal being to make her so hot that she couldn’t think about anything besides what they were doing together. Maybe that was the way to wipe out the pain building inside his skull.
He knew she caught that thought when she slid her hand down the front of his body, cupping her fingers over his erection, rocking her palm against him.
Not too much of that. I want this to last.
She raised her hands, doing what he had done, slipping her fingers under his tee shirt so that she could stroke his back before pushing the fabric up.
He stepped away from her and pulled the shirt over his head.
By the time he’d tossed the shirt away, he saw that she was standing in front of him naked to the waist.
He stared at her in the dim light coming through the crack at the edge of the curtains. “You are so beautiful.”
She grinned. “Your chest isn’t bad either.”
He crossed to the bathroom, turned on the light, and left the door a little ajar. When he looked back at her, he saw that she had turned down the covers and was reaching for the button at the top of her pants.
“Let me.”
She went still as he crossed to her, worked the button, then slowly lowered the zipper so that he could shuck the garment down her legs, taking her panties along.
He felt so much. Too much. Sexual arousal, her thoughts leaping toward him—and the pounding in his head that might wipe out everything else.
He strove to put that worry out of his mind. It wouldn’t happen if they did this right.
Which was what, exactly?
As he caressed her, he moved his lips against hers, stroking then nibbling with his teeth. He knew the exact amount of pressure that would bring her pleasure instead of pain because he felt her reactions as well as his own.
She was busy, too, removing his pants and briefs.
Finally, they were naked in each other’s arms, and his need for her threatened to overwhelm him.
If he didn’t make love with her . . .
He couldn’t finish the thought because he knew that neither one of them could stop. If he pulled away from her now, his brain would explode. And if he didn’t pull away, the same thing might happen.
She understood all that, and he sensed her fear. But they clung together, never breaking the contact as they staggered to the bed and fell onto the mattress. He rolled toward her, gathering her close, his body rocking against hers, both gasping at the sensation of skin against skin.
They were both trembling, coping with more than it seemed possible to bear. His head throbbed, and he knew that he might stroke out from the intensity.
He heard her gasp. Not just the sound, but in his mind—generated by the same pain he felt.
But he couldn’t let her go.
Maybe that was the key to survival. The courage to see this through—no matter where it led.
Remembering his vow to arouse her to a fever pitch, he slid his hand down her body again, dipping into her sex. She was wet and molten for him, and he didn’t have to ask if she was ready to take the final step. He knew.
She didn’t have to use her hand to guide him into her. They simply did it, moving from separate individuals to one being in a smooth, sure motion.
He was inside her. Or was she inside him? He didn’t know anymore where he ended and she began. He only knew that every sense was tuned to her. Every thought. And she to him.
One of them began to move. No, it was both because the pressure in their brains was too great, and the only way to relieve it was through sexual climax.
