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But there was something about the wildness in him that only increased her confidence. She was made to take him. She knew. Because he was made to need her. If it was deniable, then they would have denied it, that was the thing. That was the truth. If there was a way for the two of them to not want each other, then they simply wouldn’t want each other.
Of that she was deeply certain.
He held her in no esteem whatsoever, and while she respected a great many things about him, she never wanted to sit down with him at a dinner party with only him as a conversation piece.
And so, this moment must be, as she had thought, singular. And inevitable. And that meant that she would take him. Yes. She would.
He joined her on the bed, but he was down at her feet. He kissed her ankle, her calf, the inside of her knee. And she began to tremble as she realized his intent. She had fantasized about this. Not him specifically, but only because she had gotten a handle on her fantasies in the last couple of years. Knowing that she needed to get through this last year of school, knowing that she couldn’t go sleeping around for her own protection, she had done her best to banish her sexual desires. But there had been times... Late at night, when she had been unable to sleep that she had thought of a man, dark haired and intense, putting his head between her thighs and tasting her like she was the sweetest of desserts.
His breath was hot at the apex of her thighs, and she whimpered as he hovered there, glorious anticipation tightening her stomach into an impossible knot.
And then he took her, his lips and tongue slick and clever as he composed the symphony of desire that built to a crescendo, and then eased again, before finding its way to a crest, and waning into something slow and soft and steady.
Again and again he took her to that edge, again and again he took her there, but denied her the cymbal crash.
Again and again he made her mindless with desire as she twisted and writhed beneath him.
Constantine.
There was no doubt that it was him. For his mouth, the lyrics traced against her skin by his tongue, were wicked in a way that no other man’s ever could be.
At least, wicked for her.
The most perfect expression of the rebellion that she had always tried to deny.
She was sobbing, begging as he took her to another swell in the masterpiece. “Please,” she begged. “Please.”
And finally, he gave her what she desired. He pushed two fingers inside of her, and the shock of the penetration sent her hips up off the bed. There was a slight stinging sensation, but her orgasm was hard on the heels of it, pulsing and demanding, drawing a scream up from her throat as her release went on and on, more than a cymbal crash, an entire finale with fireworks.
And she lay there gasping for air, barely able to move, completely unable to breathe. And she found herself staring up into his dark eyes, and she felt exposed just then.
Terrified.
Because in that moment he did not feel like a man she couldn’t make conversation with at a dinner party. He felt like a man she could bare her entire soul to.
She felt as if he could see her. And for one fleeting moment she thought she might’ve seen him.
But then a veil was drawn back up and he was himself again. Hard and remote, but no less beautiful for it. She reached up and touched his face. Just as he positioned himself between her legs and thrust inside of her.
She gasped, and he groaned as he sank deep.
She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Almost certain that she would be torn in two by the size of him. She was gasping, clinging to his shoulders for all that she was worth.
And then he began to move, the slick friction that she had found beneath his mouth and fingers returning, the pain beginning to ease.
She looked up at his beautiful face and saw that his eyes were clouded with pleasure. He had not noticed her moment of discomfort, and for that she was grateful. Because she did not want him to stop and ease her fears. Did not want him to stop and treat her like an inexperienced virgin.
She felt like a seductress in his arms and she did not want to lose that sense of power.
He gripped her hips and thrust into her with ferocity, the act of making love so much more physical, so much more feral than she had realized it would be.
Man and woman. Hardness and softness. The slick slide of their skin, the sensual overflow of his hardness inside of her. And with each thrust he carried her higher. Higher and higher. And when her pleasure broke, like a damn, spilling pleasure over her in a wave, his movements increased, until he shouted out his pleasure, the mountain fracturing above her, the shock of it sending her hurtling toward another release.
And afterwards she lay gasping and unbearably conscious of her nudity. Because it was done now. She had given herself to Constantine, and she had done it not simply out of duress or any kind of desire for revenge, but because she had wanted to. And there was no denying that.
“I will see you out,” he said, moving away from her and getting out of the bed.
His broad, muscular back filled her vision, that sleek waist and muscular backside.
