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“Chayton…”
His fingers moved against her. She moaned. Her body arched towards him. Towards that exciting, possessive touch.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“Chay.” Her voice broke. “I want you.”
“More than that.”
“I want you inside me.”
“More still.”
“I need you inside me,” she said, sobbing.
Quickly, he unzipped his fly and freed
himself. Took his erection in his hand and rubbed it against her wet, welcoming heat.
He moaned at the feel of her. At the roll of her hips.
He rubbed the head of his penis against her again, and she cried out. She wept. She sighed his name.
He could feel everything inside him tightening, but he wanted more.
Wanted to give her more.
He pulled back.
“No,” she said, reaching for him, but he clasped her shoulders and pulled her up.
“On your knees.” His voice was a low growl, almost unrecognizable even to himself. Her eyes widened. “Do it,” he said harshly, “and turn your back to me.”
She obeyed his command.
Ah, dear God.
She was so beautiful.
The long, graceful line of her spine. The delicate shape of her backside.
He leaned forward, pushed her hair aside and bit the nape of her neck in the most primitive declaration of ownership. She cried out, but there was no pain in the cry.
There was only acquiescence.
And desperate desire.
“Chayton,” she said brokenly. “Please-please-please…”
The headboard was mahogany, a series of narrow sculpted posts.
“Lean forward,” he whispered. “Wrap your hands around those posts.”
She complied, and he put his hand between her thighs again, exulted in the feel of all that hot sweetness.
Then he clasped her hips and drove into her.
She cried out in ecstasy, and he drew back and thrust into her again.
