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When he withdrew and surged forward again, Francesca was lost to everything but what their bodies did. The way they rose and fell together, their breaths mingling, tongues tangling, the rhythm of their thrusts becoming more and more frenzied. It was as if they fought each other, and yet it wasn’t a fight at all. It was a tango, a beautiful dance that required each partner to give everything to the other in pursuit of satisfaction.
The air in the room was charged, zinging with electricity, and she felt as if she were drawing all of it into her body, concentrating it in her core until it would inevitably burst forth and incinerate her in the process.
It seemed to last forever and not long enough. She had no warning before she was flung into space, gasping and shuddering, her body dissolving into nothing ness. She heard Marcos’s groan of satisfaction, felt the power of his final thrust, the tremors in his body as he found his release.
A few moments later, he propped himself up on his forearms so as not to crush her beneath him. And yet she missed the pressure of his body, the hard hot feel of him melting into her. God, she’d do it again right this instant if she had the energy.
And so would he, perhaps, if the fact he was as hard as ever was anything to go by.
Francesca stretched, still floating on a cloud of satisfaction and unwilling to come down off it to deal with reality anytime soon. There was plenty of time for that later.
“And how did that feel, mi gatita? Was it worth the wait?”
“Oh yes,” she purred. “Very worth it.”
He laughed, then kissed the skin beneath her ear while she sighed. “And you said I was too sure of myself.”
“You are. But Marcos?”
“Mmm?”
“Why do you call me mi gatita? What is that?”
His smile was genuine. “I call you my kitten because you are so fierce, and so sweet at the same time.”
No matter how she cautioned herself against reading too much into it, her heart cracked wide open. She was allowing him to get too close, allowing herself to feel too much. She turned her head away on the pillow, stared at the tiny bug that swirled around the lamp. Would it get too close to the heat?
Was she in danger of burning up in Marcos’s white-hot flame?
“You are thinking about something,” he said. “But I want you to think only of me.”
Marcos flexed his hips, and her body answered with heat and want that wasn’t diminished in the least by the release she’d already had.
“Think only of me,” he repeated. “Of us.”
And then he made it impossible for her to think of anything else.
He was sitting in a darkened room, on the floor because there was no furniture, and he could hear the scritch-scritch of small rodents behind the walls. His wrists were bound in manacles. They’d stopped stinging hours ago. Now they throbbed. Throbbed because they were swelling from the raw wounds he’d opened by trying to pull free.
He couldn’t see what they’d chained him to. Couldn’t see anything. Could only hear the rats and smell his own sweat and blood. How long had he been here? He’d lost track of time in the darkness and deprivation of the last few days.
Nearby, something hissed, sending his battered senses into high alert. Marcos struggled against the bindings, uncaring that his wrists felt as though they were being ripped open anew.
The hissing grew louder, the dry coiling of scales on the floor more precise as the serpent moved. Marcos yelled, as much to scare the snake as to express his fear—
“Marcos!”
He blinked. The room was dark, but he was in a bed. And he wasn’t alone.
“Marcos, it’s okay,” a woman’s soft voice said. “You’re with me. There’s no one here but us …”
Her arms went around him, her face tucking into the crook of his neck. His first instinct was to push her away.
But he didn’t want to. He wanted to hold her, to let her drive the dreams away.
“Francesca,” he rasped.
“Yes, I’m here.” She pushed away suddenly. “I’ll get you some water. You’re so hot.”
