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She’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, before in her life. But as he stood up the yearning only pulsed harder in her sex. Her head barely reached his collarbone.
‘You’re wearing too many clothes,’ she managed, folding her arms over her breasts, still damp from his lips.
He nodded, his eyes glassy with desire, then ripped his shirt loose from his trousers, dragged it over his head without unbuttoning it to reveal the sculpted beauty of his naked chest. The strong lines bunched as he moved. The tanned skin was marked by several small scars, and the black ink which ringed his collarbone was not barbed wire, she realised, but a tangle of thorns.
He had other tattoos. One on his bicep of a bird of some kind, and a line of text in French—or probably French Cajun—arrowing into the dark line of hair which bisected his six-pack. But before she could read the words, or attempt a translation, he kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, ripped open his fly and shoved off his trousers and boxers.
Her mind blurred as his magnificent erection—hard, thick and long—stood proud from the thicket of hair at his groin.
Moisture flooded her sex and dried in her throat. She reached out to run her fingertip down the thick length.
He made a tortured sound and the massive erection jerked against her touch. But then he grabbed her wrist to pull her hand away. ‘Don’t...’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she blurted out, meeting his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to...’
‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, his tone raw. ‘But we’ll have to take a rain-check on the foreplay.’
A rain-check? There’s going to be a next time?
Something that felt disturbingly like joy burst in her chest, but then he scooped her up and placed her onto the bed. She bounced on the coverlet, the tumultuous feeling only intensifying as the storm continued to rage outside, matching the thunder in her chest.
He knelt over her, trapping her under his big body as he reached into the bedside table and located a foil packet. He tore it open with his teeth, and she watched him sheath himself with the protection.
She braced herself, ready for him to plunge deep into her yearning sex, but instead he moved down, cradled her hips in strong hands and sank his face between her legs.
He trailed his tongue up her inner thigh, sipping and licking, and she bucked off the bed.
‘Ahh...’ she cried, the sound as incoherent as her thoughts, her feelings.
He parted her with his thumbs and blew on the molten bundle of nerves already throbbing painfully. Then he swirled his to
ngue through the slick folds.
‘Please...’ Her cries became louder, as she begged, so shocked by the pleasure battering her body she could hardly breathe. ‘Just...’
‘Just what, cher?’ He looked up, his smile as devastating as the crash of thunder outside. ‘You know you taste even better than you smell?’
‘I... Really?’ she asked, then realised how ridiculous she sounded when he gave a deep, husky laugh. But before she could become embarrassed he licked her again—right...there.
She shuddered...sobbed. Then he closed his lips over the swollen nub and flicked his tongue across it. She bucked, writhed, desperate to escape the torture, but just as desperate to have it never end. He held her steady, held her open as he worked the tender nub. The wave gathered—strong, fast, too furious to bear.
Everything inside her clenched tight, bearing down. She moaned, her body arching up, bowing back, straining, desperate. Then she flew apart. The orgasm shattered her, cascading through her body like the waves crashing onto the rocks below.
She sank back to the bed, her body floating on a golden tide of afterglow.
His face appeared above her. ‘Encore,’ he demanded.
He angled her hips, his erection butting against her sex. And before she had a moment to brace herself he plunged home.
She flinched, the penetration immense, the full, stretched feeling too much.
He stopped, embedded to the hilt as she struggled to adjust.
‘So tight, cher...’ he murmured, the gruff tone tortured. ‘You okay?’
She nodded, her sex pulsing around the thick intrusion, the slice of pain thankfully receding.
‘You’re not a virgin, are you, cher?’ he asked, and the frown was back, his tone rough with astonishment.
