Then he was crushing her in his arms again, so tightly Phoebe could hardly breathe, but she welcomed the deprivation, for it was heaven to be held so closely against his hard body.
“I need you, and I’ll die if I have to wait a second longer,” he whispered, his voice gruff.
He proceeded to shower kisses on her crown, her forehead, her temple, her cheeks and then his lips found their way to her mouth. An involuntary low moan of pleasure erupted from Phoebe’s chest and the kiss turned greedy and carnal.
It was neither smooth nor sweet. It was hard and hungry. A stark welcomed invasion of her senses ticking up her heartbeat and laboring her breath. They clawed at each other, her hands going for his neck then pulling him in closer, and closer. His arms were like a vise around her waist, then kneading her derriere and sliding up in strong strokes to her shoulders. A gratifying sound escaped his mouth as she savagely kissed him back. It was too much, but not enough. It sparked a fiery tumult in every cell of her body.
The kiss shifted her world with its voraciousness. And nothing but Slade existed, his steely embrace, his hot mouth plundering hers and her need for more, and more. His hand cupped the back of her head, bringing her yet closer and more flush against him. He increased the pressure of the kiss, tilting his head to press more into her lips, his teeth grazing her mouth. It was wildly intoxicating.
She was desperate for more. Her desperation was mirrored in the wild volcano burning in his eyes as he scooped her up.
He deposited her on the soft bed, sliding in above her, one knee on either side of her thighs. “I fell asleep to the memory of your naked body each night I was away from you. It was torture of the acutest kind,” he said, kissing her jaws, clavicles, and the slope of her neck. It wasn’t tender, soft, or sweet. He bit down on the pulse point at her neck, that must have been beating like a frantic fluttering bird. It wasn’t enough to hurt her, but the shock from his teeth made her gasp. The rawness of pleasure rippled down her. Then he licked and gently sucked the spot he’d bitten, his hot, fast, uneven breath burning her skin. It unleashed Phoebe’s recklessness. She wanted even more of his mouth. She tugged at his shirt, yearning for his skin against her skin, for the weight of him directly on top of her, for the friction of him inside her.
“Mo ghaol… your clothes,” she said, her breathing dangerously ragged.
He raised his head. His beautiful eyes were desperate and wild, his lips damp and his hair mussed. It hit her that she’d been tangling and tugging at his thick dark locks with her fingers.
Slade urgently tugged at the opening of his breeches. And, out of desperation for him, she hiked up the hem of her gown, fabric bunching at her midriff, exposing herself to him. There was no decency in the gesture. Nothing but unbridled desire drove her to part her legs, like a feline in heat. Her core throbbed with need and emptiness.
He growled as he stared down at her core. “Sweet Saints, I have never seen anything more beautiful.”
The raw heat in his voice would have knocked her off her feet had she not already been lying on the bed.
He tugged down his breeches. Fabric bunched at his knees. And he was on top of her, kissing her and moving between her legs.
His knees parted her thighs further, his body’s weight supported by his limbs, then as his eyes bored into hers, his shaft sank deep into her core with a single steely thrust.
Phoebe gasped with unbridled pleasure at his thick rigidity filling her to the brim.
“You are heaven, and I’ve been in hell without you,” he said, in a low growl.
Her body screamed in pleasure as he started to move. She arched upwards to meet him as her fingers dug into the flesh of his back, her inner muscles contracting around his girth.
They moved together, her arching desperate thrusts meeting his deep frantic plunges.
The raw hunger in his expression, the frantic, delicious friction of their accelerated movements, and the fact that she was starved for him pushed her over the edge. Her body erupted in cascading spasms. Wave after wave hit her as Slade drove into her deeper and harder. Their combined release was brutal and ragged, their labored breaths a disjointed symphony, culminating with her in weightless bliss.
Slade slumped on her, and she welcomed his delicious weight. But then he slid to lie next to her. He pulled her closer into the crook of his arms. And they lay there for some time, Phoebe more content than she’d ever been.
Slade shifted and Phoebe opened her eyes. He’d propped himself up on an elbow to gaze down at her, his eyes dark with renewed passion, and his smile lazy and seductive.
“I’ve never been that desperate. I promise the next time will be slower and sweeter,” he murmured, gently fingering a lock of her hair.
“We have all the night, and the rest of our lives,” she said, rising to kiss the tip of his nose.
He was utterly unconcerned by the way his breeches bunched at his knees, his middle exposed. His handsomely disheveledappearance tugged a warm smile from her as she detangled herself from him and slid off the bed, her own garments bunched ridiculously at her waist, her thigh-high hose clad legs visible and her middle similarly exposed. But the one thing that bothered her was her boots. Rather than being a necessity, they felt clunky on her feet. She bent down, unlaced each and left them by the side of the bed, with her hose. Her bare feet enjoyed the coolness of the stone floor. When she straightened again, it dawned on her that she didn’t have the need to run. She didn’t have the need to be ready anymore. She could finally stop running. She marveled at the fact that she was finally safe and at home with Slade. Slade was her home.
Phoebe went to get a drink of sherry from the sideboard, utterly parched. Slade declined whisky. Then she smiled coquettishly as she removed her rumpled garments and pulled on a plush red velvet dressing gown, tying its belt at her waist.
Slade leisurely rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip, eying her like an eagle sizing up his next meal, a deceptively lazy smile stretching his mouth, but then his eye took in her state of dress. “I don’t recall seeing you in red before, but I certainly recalled your disinclination to take off your boots in the bedchamber,” he murmured.
Phoebe laughed, twirling around. “Don’t you like my new dressing gown?”
His eyes hungrily raked the length of her, then his brows hiked up. “The color suits you very well, but despite that fact, I’m going to take pleasure in disrobing you shortly, especially since it appears you’ve decided to take off your boots and stop running,” his voice was slow, and silken, with a hint of intrigue.
A silly grin lifted the corners of her lips as her insides warmed. He understood her like no one else ever had, understood the significance of her bare feet. Phoebe looked down at the robe, briefly fingering its softness, then her eyestravelled to her feet. Her old fears had started to fade. “I’ve decided to stop running, and to embrace freedom and colors again. To take control of my wardrobe, so to speak.”
Since Faye Ross’s death, Phoebe had reconsidered her hate of red. It was just a color after all.
