He laughed and returned to the ravishing of her breasts while she used nails to torment his skin. Without drawing blood.
Then he spread her legs and pushed into her again, and she rose eagerly, hungrily, nearly in orgasm already.
He moved in and out once with tortuous slowness. “It’ll be longer this time.” He made it into a thrilling warning.
She opened her eyes. “Will it?”
His wolfish smile was answer. “Do you like it long?”
Her head was buzzing, and the world swirled. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “My husband never went very long. He was over thirty when he married me.”
“You’ve had no one else?”
She could protest the implication, but just said, “No.”
“Am I better then?”
She laughed because it was only part tease. Deliberately, she challenged the demon. “I don’t know yet.”
He shifted and put one hand firmly over her mouth, while beginning deep, even strokes. She looked up, excited by that mild restraint. It implied that she had no right to object. That he could do anything with her, even draw blood.
And perhaps he could.
As she’d thought, Maurice’s demanding sex had been a very safe game. Now she might be in the jungle with the animals. It excited her as nothing before.
She moved to wrap her legs around his waist, but he said, “No. Keep them down.”
It could be a request. It sounded like a command.
Then he stilled and lowered his head to her breasts again, sucking painfully strongly, arching her, breaking a muffled cry from her. His teeth. She felt his teeth, pressing so carefully, but so lethally.
Her heart pounded with sudden terror and violent lust. His silencing hand felt like a gag, but when she tried to fight it off, it tightened. He raised his head and looked at her, a glint of triumph in his eyes before he lowered again to her breasts. Mercy on her, it was that contest again. What might it drive him to do?
Instead of biting, he licked. Slowly, lazily, he licked all around her breasts when she wanted to scream at him for more.
She lay there, pinned to the bed, resentfully enduring this meaningless tonguing, resenting even more that he’d assessedthe game as a whole and was winning a Pyrrhic victory simply by being gentle. She was full with the burning hardness of him, and apart from an occasional twitch, he wasn’t moving at all.
He looked up again, claiming the mystery. She could hate him, but she didn’t. She realized that she was hot, hot all over, boiling with need, excited by being entirely in his power and that she’d never before had time to know what this felt like.
Desperately intolerable.
He took his hand from her mouth and began to thrust. Deep rhythmical thrusts that truly did feel as if they could go on forever. He was watching her as if she was more interesting than his own pleasure. She watched back, desperately fighting dissolution under those competitive eyes.
Losing.
“Bastard!” she hissed, and surrendered.
When she swam out of the hot darkness he was still thrusting.
“Zeus, no,” she muttered, but he didn’t stop. Why did she think she could say no to this? And did she want to? Soon her body ripped off into madness again.
It happened one more time but that time he was with her, or far, far away from her. When he collapsed on her, she had to fight the urge to push him off and run away.
No more.
She couldn’t take any more.
But of course, there would be no more. It was not physically possible. Was it? What did she really know of this?
