When it finally subsided, I was shaking. Trembling against his chest, my wrists still pinned above me more out of habit than his grip, every muscle in my body liquid.
"Color?" he asked softly.
"I don't —" I had to catch my breath. "I don't know what color comes after green. Whatever's beyond green. That color."
He released my wrists. I lowered my arms — my shoulders ached slightly, a good ache — and he pulled me against him, one arm tight around my waist.
"We're not done," he said against my hair.
"We're not?"
His hand moved to his belt. I heard the clink of the buckle, the rasp of a zipper.
"We're not done, Charlie. Not by a long shot. But I need to know — are you —"
"IUD. And I'm clean."
"Same." The relief in his voice was immediate. "Good. Because I don't want anything between us."
"Get up here." He pulled me onto his lap, hands gripping my hips, the silk of my dress bunching between us. "I want to see your face."
I braced my hands on his shoulders and sank down onto him.
We both stopped breathing.
He filled me completely — thick, hard, stretching me in a way that bordered on overwhelming. His fingers dug into my hips, holding me still while we both adjusted.
"Okay?" he managed.
"More than okay." I shifted, rocking forward, and we both groaned. "God, Dominic —"
"Slowly." His hands controlled my hips, setting a pace that was torturously unhurried. "We're doing this my way."
"Your way is —ah— killing me."
"My way is going to make you come again."
"I can't —"
"You can." He thrust up — slow, deep, hitting a spot that made my vision blur. "And you will."
He was right. I could already feel it building again — slower this time, deeper, rolling through me in waves that started in my core and radiated outward. His hands guided my hips in a rhythm that was relentless — slow and grinding, then a hard, deep thrust that punched the air out of my lungs, then slow again.
"Look at me," he said.
I opened my eyes. Hadn't realized I'd closed them. His face was inches from mine, jaw tight, eyes blazing, and the expression on his face — the intensity, the focus, the barely leashed hunger — was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen.
"You are —" He thrust deep and I gasped. "Incredible."
"Dominic —"
"You're perfect." Another thrust, and his hand slid between us, thumb finding my clit again. "You fight me on everything. You're reckless and stubborn and you never listen."
"Is this — oh God — is this supposed to be a compliment?"
"And every single second," he continued, his rhythm building, "every second since I walked into that office and youtold me to go to hell — I have wanted this. Wanted you. Like this. Coming apart in my hands."
"I'm —"
