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The tip slid between her folds, then found her opening and thrust deep. They both groaned in pleasure.
The angle was unlike anything she’d experienced before, his cock pressing hard against her vaginal muscles with every deep stroke. He thrust twice, then groaned low in his throat and folded himself over her, his chest pressed to her back. He kissed the lines of the cat across her shoulders, trailing his tongue over the faint welts and swellings.
She moaned. “Yes. Please, yes.”
Sheets of fire cascaded over her skin from where his lips touched her, all that she had felt earlier and then some. She felt her fluids pouring forth, coating his cock and running down both of their legs.
Rikard reached around to caress her swollen, aching breasts. His blind fingers found the nipples, first stroking, then squeezing them.
She gasped, her hips jerking in response.
“Like that,” he groaned. “Again.”
They found their rhythm, her hips bucking beneath him as he pumped in and out, squeezing her nipples with every thrust. Kisses landed scattershot on her shoulders, his mouth finding new territory each time he lunged forward.
He moaned, a note of utter purity that nearly stopped her breath with its beauty. Twice more, he thrust in time with his cries. Then he thrust deep and exploded, shaking as his body covered hers.
Her hips continued to rock, and he fumbled between her slick folds, his fingers questing for her clit. When he found it, two quick squeezes were all she needed before she shrilled her own release and collapsed, her knees no longer able to support her. The heavy weight of his body pinned her to the bed, as his knees gave out too.
His arms still around her, he rolled them to their sides so they’d be able to breathe. His limp cock slid free, wringing one last shaking moan of pleasure from her.
He tightened his hold, nearly crushing her lungs despite freeing her from his weight. His arms shook, his ragged breathing rasping hot and damp across the back of her neck where his face was pressed tight against the hollow of her shoulder.
She froze, her brain refusing her interpretation of what she was feeling. She cataloged the sensations again, feeling moisture trickle down the back of her neck, and hearing his wet gulps of air as his chest shook with the effort of breathing.
He was crying.
“Rikard? Master?”
He drew a deep, shuddering breath, then a second with more control. His arms loosened, and he lifted his head. Brushing one last kiss across her shoulder, he whispered, “Thank you.”
“I enjoyed it, too.”
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her ribs where her back pressed against his chest. “That, too. But I meant for being willing to try. It’s been…a while.”
“I’d think women would be throwing themselves at you, for the hot sex and fabulous food.”
He bolted upright. “Shit! Dessert. It’s probably melted all over the kitchen table by now. I’ve got to go clean that up before it runs onto the floor.”
Rolling out of bed, he hurried to take care of the culinary disaster, grabbing his leather pants off the dresser as he passed. Gayle heard his footsteps pound down the staircase, and a cry of horror when he entered the kitchen.
She shook her head. “And, he cleans.”
Figuring he’d be a while—he seemed the type to clean each individual swirl of wrought iron with a cotton swab—she put on the robe and walked back to the playroom to get her clothes. She got dressed, then headed downstairs.
Rikard had shoved the table and chairs aside, and had built a levee of paper towels surrounding the vanilla lake on the kitchen floor to keep it from spreading. He was busy mopping the glass top of the table with yet more paper towels when Gayle poked her head in the doorway.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. Thanks. I just have to get it all up before it crystallizes. The ice cream’s not so bad, it’s the caramel.” He paused to toss out his sodden towels and rip new ones off the roll. “This isn’t how I planned on ending our date, but there’s no point in you hanging around to watch me clean. I’ll be another half hour at this.”
“Half an hour just to wipe up a spill?”
“It’s the table and chairs. I love the look of the wrought iron, but it’s a bitch to clean. And with a milk-based spill, if I miss anything, pretty soon it’ll be stinking worse than a dead skunk.”
She winced in sympathy, remembering the misplaced creamer for the coffee at work that had cleared half her floor with its stench. “Okay. You want me to call you?”
He tossed out another handful of towels, and smiled over his shoulder at her. “Give me a call Tuesday night, and let me know how your audition went. We can set up our next date then.”
