On the third stroke, he found it and my heart shot from my chest. My arms wrenched against the headboard in my frenzied thrashing.
Now that he’d struck it, he was relentless in his destruction of my sanity. Whether it was seconds, hours, or days, it didn’t matter. Not when he pressed down, rocking his finger there in unceasing, exquisite, agony.
In great shuddering gasps, I spilled across my chest as I succumbed to white pleasure.
The world returned beneath dreamy, sensual waves. First there was the sound of Xander’s groan, sending a shudder of pleasure down my spine, then the sensation of his seed joining with my own in the divots of my abdomen. His hand swirled there, mixing it like paint, before he brought a hand to my lips. Instinctively, I opened, savoring the offering on his finger before he pulled it back and cupped my face in a filthy kiss.
I was still lost in the tingly, blissful numbness that always accompanied my postcoital moments with Xander, but this—tonight, it was more. Stronger, brighter, it left me feeling softer, more languid and loose-limbed, in spite of my still-trapped hands.
He was responsible for directing this kiss because I wasn’t capable of more than allowing him to take his fill. Our spend, still on his hand, began to cool on my cheek before he finished with me. For one brief moment, he allowed himself the luxury of collapsing against me before he reached for the knots on the cravats.
They came free from the posts, still wrapped around my wrists when I reached for him. My shoulders protested the movement but it was a pleasant ache.
Xander’s breath was ragged even as mine had slowed like that of sleep. He wriggled underneath me to rub my biceps, collarbone, shoulders—still leaving a mess wherever he went.It took a moment to identify the additional dampness—seeping from his eyes into the crook of my neck.
“Xander?”
“You’re so damn beautiful. Where did you come from? You cannot be made for me like this. It’s not possible.” His voice was thick and hoarse with overwrought adoration.
I swallowed the knot of emotions. “I was though. I was made for you and you were made for me. And whatever comes next, it will be well.”
“Even if I’m making a father of you at one and twenty with absolutely no notice?”
“Even then.”
He sighed and pushed himself off me with a weary look at the mess he’d made of us.
“Christ, we’re going to need a bath.”
“I will not be the one to ask someone to draw it. Can you imagine? We’d never hear the end of it.”
“We may not even now. You were a little loud at the end.”
“Worth it.” My grin was lecherous as I shoved a hand beneath my head. The slight twinge in my shoulder was easily ignored as long as I could luxuriate in the sight of him. Naked and covered in us, I relaxed as he located and then discarded various shirts and handkerchiefs to find a suitable rag.
“There is an obvious solution,” I said when he finally returned with a length of toweling.
“What is that?” He wiped, somewhat effectually, at his artwork on my stomach.
“The lake, right outside.”
His face twisted in disgust before he consciously fought for something neutral. The effect was rather that of a distraught puppy.
“Not tonight then,” I said, laughing. “But you’re going to need a bigger rag.”
“This was so arousing, essential, when I did it,” he whined, gesturing at his chest.
“It was…”
“Remind me of this next time.”
“Absolutely not. If you thought I was capable of speech in that moment, you were grossly mistaken. And even if I had been, you could not have paid me to stop you.”
“Hmmm.” He paused his fussing for a moment, a pleased, self-satisfied smile slipping over his face.
I cupped his cheek and pulled him down to press my lips against his. “I love you,” I whispered when we broke apart.
His lips slid to one side in his signature, odd little facsimile of a smile.
