His erection pressing against her bare bottom. His chest against her back. He was still wearing a T-shirt, and this somehow was even more erotic.
“I’m going to make you scream louder than Melissa Manchester,” he murmured, softly, right into her ear, and she started to laugh but she stopped when he applied his tongue and traced slow curlicues there followed by strategic little hot breaths, and continued in that fashion down her throat, sending zaps of bliss to the far reaches of her body, her scalp, her fingertips, down to the soles of her feet. And he followed this by sliding his hand up to cup her breasts, to nipples that were so rigid it was a wonder sparks didn’t shoot from them when he chafed his thumbs across.
“Jesus...sweet oh sweet Jesus,” she moaned, like someone at a revival meeting. Awestruck by the staggering wonderfulness.
His hand made its way down and slipped with alacrity between her legs and discovered her wet indeed.
“Spread ’em, Harwood,” he ordered.
She did.
And he trailed kisses down along her spine, and the kisses were followed by his featherlight fingertips, down, down, down, until he kissed that wildly sensitive little place at the base of her spine, and then managed to maneuver his torso between her legs, which was both comical and graceful as if they were Chinese acrobats, and now he was in front of her looking up. He slid his palms up over her thighs and delicately touched his tongue rightthere.
A bolt of pleasure nearly lifted the top off her head. “HolyMother...”
He did it again. And again, and then he performed what amounted to calligraphy with the very tip of his tongue. Oh dear lord, could pleasure blind you? She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
And then he stopped.
Her eyes opened again. “Mac... please...”
“Am I on the right track?” His voice was a laughing purr. His eyes were full of wicked lights.
“Don’t...talk...”
And this time he took orders from her. He set up a rhythm. The sinewy talent of his hot, satiny tongue was a revelation. He took cues from her shredded breathing, her moans, her thrashed-back head and undulating hips, her fingers curling into his hair to urge him on, to hold herself up. A tsunami of pleasure was building, building, building.
And when it hit, as he’d promised, she screamed quite shamelessly.
He caught her in his arms before she could crumple to the floor like a marionette, and danced her backward a few feet and deposited her on his bed, and clambered onto it alongside her, hovering over her like a conqueror. Admiring his handiwork. Sporting a glorious erection curving up his belly.
“Off!” She seized a handful of his T-shirt as if she was a teen who’d gotten hold of Harry Styles. “All of it.”
He ripped it off over his head and flung it across the room. He yanked off his jeans all the way.
And she sighed again as she reached up for him, dragged her hands over satin skin stretched over those drum-taut muscles, slid her hands into those delicious hollows of muscle on his butt, perfect for gripping when things got fast and hard. He hissed in a breath with the pleasure of her touch, his stomach contracting. And so she let her hands glide over him, her fingertips tracing those fissures of muscle.
He slid his hands into hers and pressed them flat and she locked her legs around his back.
And she looked up at him, and he looked down into her eyes, and she had a hunch that the realization that this was the first time that they had ever lain together, skin to skin, struck them simultaneously. His expression suddenly went serious and very nearly shy. She touched his face and she didn’t know why. As if the unguarded Mac, the sweetness she’d always known, was there and she wanted to protect him, acknowledge him, feel him once more before that boy was gone.
He stroked into her deeply, slowly. At first.
And then faster.
Very like they’d discussed earlier about painting.
“Oh my God. Oh God.” His words were really tatters of breath as he moved. “Avalon.”
And then they collided hard, over and over, in a perfect, greedy rhythm, until their breath came in shredded gusts, until the cords of his neck drew tight, until he rose up over her, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and shouted her name.
She held on to him, terrified and joyous all at once, as he eased himself down over her. She could feel his heart beating right against hers.
“Should we high-five each other?” she suggested a few seconds later. Still somewhat breathlessly.
“Low five,” he said, and gave her bottom a contented little smack.
