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To glory in it.
To surrender herself completely and worry about it later.
He began to thrust in and out of her with his fingers, and that was so amazing, so astonishing, that Melody didn’t know what to do with herself. She was making noises she didn’t recognize. She flushed, hot and red, like a fever—but this one felt almost too good to bear.
But her hips seemed to know things she didn’t, rising to meet those hard, seeking fingers. His mouth was at her neck. She felt the graze of his teeth on her collarbone.
And everything was this. The rise, the fall. The thrust of his fingers deep into her body. Steel and fire, flesh and blood. His mouth a hot demand. Her own sounds a betrayal and a song at once to this rough, wondrous music.
Then, finally, Griffin took her mouth again, kissing her deeply. Until his tongue mimicked the thrust and retreat of his fingers, and that was too much.
It was alltoo much—
And this latest explosion made her stiffen, everywhere, until she thought she might shatter.
Then she did shatter.
And when she was herself again, Griffin was gathering her beneath him. He pulled her knees up and wide.
Melody could feel something wider and blunter than his fingers press against her softness. And she knew.
She had wanted this. She had dreamed of sex, that funny word that seemed so strange and sharp when all of this was...hot and physical, wide and deep. It was everything and too much and not enough. It was flesh and fantasy, surrender and hope. It was—
Griffin twisted his hips and thrust his way deep inside her.
And this time as she bucked against him, it wasn’t another one of those explosions. It was a different shattering—and the shock of pain.
She blew out a breath, then another, and his hands were at the sides of her face, brushing her hair back.
“Breathe,” he ordered her. “The pain will ebb.”
She obeyed him. She believed him.
Melody tried to pull in a breath, then let it out again, but he was on top of her. He must have been holding himself up on his elbows, but that didn’t take away from the press of him. That huge male body of his was sprawled out on top of her, holding her where she was. Keeping her there.
More than that, anchoring her in that place where they were connected.
Griffin seemed content to hold himself there forever. Something about that made her...not anxious. Nothing like anxious. But still, she wriggled her hips, experimentally.
Sensation walloped her, raw and huge, and she froze again. And panted a little.
But almost in the next moment, she tried again.
It was the same, only this time she was sure that there was something in the punch of it that she liked. Or wanted to like.
Melody knew pain, after all. She remembered the first time she’d been hit in the face—the shock of it, the emotional response. And then, years later and a great many more strikes and blows to the face—because that was how a person trained—it wasn’t as if getting hit changed any.
What changed was that she knew how to take it.
And here, now, she figured she should apply the same principle. Lean into the sensation and find out what it was.
So she did. And the more she moved her hips, the more the intensity changed. It didn’t lessen, but it didn’t stay put. It seemed to move through her until she felt it, everywhere. And there between her legs, she couldn’t decide if she was sore or scared or gluttonous.
The more she moved, the better it felt.
“Better?” Griffin asked, his voice a rough, spicy growl that merged with the sensations inside her and made them...more.
“Better,” she managed to say. “Good.”
