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For an infinitesimal moment everything seemed to be suspended, and then he thrust into her in one smooth move, so deep that Darcy gasped, and her back arched at this invasion of her flesh, ready as she was.
Max stopped. ‘Dio...have I hurt you? You’re so small...’
‘No,’ said Darcy fiercely, wrapping her legs around him as far as they’d go. ‘Don’t stop...’
The initial sting of pain was fading. She’d never felt so stretched, so full. And as Max moved his big body in and out she felt a deep sense of peace bloom and grow within her even as intense excitement built and built, until all her muscles were shaking with the effort it took to hold on against the rising storm.
Max put a hand between them, unerringly finding her centre and touching her there. ‘You first, Darcy...then I’ll fall...’
Darcy looked deep into his eyes, locked onto them tight as she finally relinquished her control to this man and fell so hard and so fast that she blacked out for a moment. She only came back to her dulled senses when Max’s heavy body slumped over hers, their breathing harsh and ragged in the quiet room.
* * *
When the sky was tinged with the dying rays of the sun outside they made love again. Slowly, taking the time to learn everything they hadn’t had time to do the first time around. Hands slipped and glided, squeezed and gripped. Max’s fingers explored, feeling the telltale slickness between Darcy’s legs, needing no more encouragement. He wrapped his hand around the back of Darcy’s thigh and lifted it so that he could deepen his thrust into her body. He groaned with sheer pleasure that she held him so snugly.
She smoothed back the hair from his forehead, her hands gripping his shoulders, urging him on. It was a long, slow dance, building and building to a crescendo that broke over them, taking Max by surprise with its intensity.
When he had the strength to move he scooped Darcy against his front, with her knees drawn up so her buttocks were cupped in his lap. Wrapping his arms tight around her, he felt his mind blank of anything but a delicious feeling of satisfaction, and slipped into oblivion.
* * *
When Darcy woke it was dark outside. She had no sense of time or space for a disorientating moment, not recognising the room she was in. And then she moved, and winced as muscles—intimate muscles—protested.
Max. His big body thrusting so deep that she’d been unable to hold back a hoarse cry of pleasure... It all rushed back. The desperation of that first coupling, followed by that lengthy, luxurious exploration. Her skin felt sensitive, tenderised.
She sat up now, looking around the moonlit room. No sounds from the bathroom. Moving to the side of the bed, Darcy stood up, wincing slightly again, and reached for the robe left on the end of the bed.
She opened the door and immediately a mouth-watering smell hit her nostrils. She followed it instinctively, realising just how hungry she was as she stumbled to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen.
Max was stirring something in a pot, humming tunelessly, wearing low slung sweat pants and a T-shirt.
‘Hey...’ Darcy hovered at the door, feeling ridiculously self-conscious.
Max turned around and looked her over, those dark eyes gleaming with something she couldn’t read.
‘Ciao.’
Darcy came further in. ‘What time is it?’
‘About three in the
morning. You must be starving.’
There was a very wicked gleam in Max’s eyes and Darcy fought back an urge to poke her tongue out at that and at his far too smug look. She was ravenous. Not that she’d admit it.
She shrugged a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. ‘A little, I guess.’
‘Liar,’ Max said easily, and came around the kitchen island to scoop her up against him and kiss away any faux nonchalance for good.
He let her go and walked back around to the pot.
Darcy was dizzy. ‘What are you cooking?’ she managed to get out over her palpitating heart. That kiss had told her that they were nowhere near finished with this mutual...whatever it was...
‘Pasta with funghi porcini in a creamy white wine sauce.’
Max had dished up the pasta now, into two bowls, and was bringing them over to a rustic table. He brought over some bread, and a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Darcy came over, mouth watering. When she took a bite the al dente pasta and its flavours exploded on her tongue. It all felt incredibly decadent—as if this were some kind of illicit midnight feast.
