‘That feels...so good.’ The muscle in his bicep trembles above my head before he dips down, pressing his forehead against mine. Maybe this tease is taking a toll on him, too?
I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing my mouth to his ear. ‘I said you had sadistic leanings.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’ His mouth hitches in a sinful, wicked half smile, a dark pulse beginning to beat deep inside me. ‘But you could find out.’
‘And just how do I get you to corrupt me?’
‘You could start by saying my name.’ And as though to prompt me, he nudges my clit with his fat crown.
‘James,’ I almost purr, wrapping my hands around his neck as I pull him down for a kiss. ‘Stop torturing me. Please, just fuck me.’ Because I don’t think I can beg.
His cocky grin falters, his eyes turning dark as he glides the head of his cock against me once more. Then we both watch as he breaches my wetness.
‘Sweet Jesus. That is a sight to behold.’ He grunts, watching my body accept his as my back bows in a silent urge for him to thrust.
But I don’t answer, can’t, unless you count my cry as, with one long drive, he fills me to his hilt. I tighten my hands on his biceps as though I could keep him there, keep him still. To hold the sensation of being so very full.
‘I don’t—’ The penises I’ve known are few, but none of them has made me feel like this. Like if I hiccup, I’ll do myself an injury. ‘You’re so big.’
‘But not too big.’ His response is accompanied by a wicked smile. And as though to prove the point, he begins to move, slowly at first, but as my whimpers turn to cries, and those cries become louder and a little more desperate, he picks up the pace. With a masculine grunt, he slides from base to tip, switching to shallow movements; small jabs and punches of his hips.
And I love it. Love it all. And though I’ve no experience with dirty talk, I’m so very turned on by his hungered words.
‘You’re so tight. You feel like velvet. Every inch of you.’ His eyes are so dark, and his expression fierce as he pulls back to flick the tip of his tongue across both nipples in turn. Then, sliding his hands under me, he lifts me from the bed for better positioning, bringing me onto his lap. Andohhh.
Oh. My. God.
His arms wrapped around me, our mouths meet on the up thrust, all jagged breath and sliding tongue.
‘You’re so fucking delicious,’ he whispers, burying his face in my neck. ‘I want to bury myself inside you.’
My orgasm springs to life at his powerful thrusts. Everything inside me draws tight, my spine an impossible arch as I throw my head back. I want to watch, want to see the thick slide of him, but content myself with his movements, his possession of me. He fucks like he kisses—with command and assurance—and I’m just along for the ride.Quite literally. It’s all so much, almost too much, as I give in to him—give in to the needs of my body.
‘God. Oh, God. I’m-I’m—’
I’m unable to process the waves of pleasure pulsing through me, the rush of sensation and heat overwhelming. I see stars. Whole universes created. The Big Bang?Again, quite literally.
‘I can feel you,’ he grunts. ‘I can feel you coming around my cock.’
And with those dirty sentiments, he follows me.
5
James
I dreamthat I’m burning, that my skin is literally on fire. Which is odd but not for the fact that I’m dreaming, but for the fact that I’d fallen asleep at all. I know as I stir, I’m not at home. The air is different. And it smells like perfume. And though I’m not on fire, I’m sweating, and I soon discover why.
A swathe of blonde hair is plastered to my chest and neck, a hand rests across my waist, and a thigh is drawn high across my legs. The woman is like a limpet and burning at a thousand degrees. I’m not sure which part of her I should move in order to keep from cooking internally. I settle initially for gathering her hair and pushing it away from my face.
There.
Apart from feeling like Satan’s about to poke me in the arse with his fork, the sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant. It’s been some time since I woke to a woman in my bed. Or woke in a woman’s bed, as the case may be.Or woke in my childhood friend’s grandmother’s bed, long since deceased.I yawn and rub a hand across my jaw as I decide that’s probably where I am right now.
I lift my head from the pillow and examine the space, deciding this room once belonged to Eamon’s grandmother’s, and that it probably hasn’t been redecorated since then. Not that I’ve ever been in here before, but I did spend almost as much time in this house as I did my parents’ house next door while growing up. Flowery wallpaper and a vintage wardrobe and dresser, a fireside chair in a Liberty print, and a three-quarter sized bed with a terribly squeaky mattress furnish this room.
I wonder if she died in this bed?
Whether she did or not is immaterial because I guarantee this bed has never had a workout like it did last night. I’m surprised it’s still on four legs given the noises of protest it made as the springs groaned and the headboard banged against the wall.
