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And it was not enough to simply taste her. It was not enough to add one finger, then another, to the rhythm he set.
It was not enough to bring her to the edge then retreat, then throw her over again.
Again and again, just to make sure.
Just to remind them both.
None of it was enough. And he was drunk on her taste, on the sounds she made, on the way she brought her whole body into this. The way her heels drummed against his back and her fingers gripped his hair.
The way she rocked herself against him, greedily. As if she, too, was as much a slave to these fires between them as he was.
Though he knew that couldn’t be true.
For he knew that there could be no wanting deeper or wilder than his.
“Please,” she cried out, arching up against him again. And then again. “Please, Crete. I need you inside me.”
And it all felt preordained. She had always tasted too much like fate. As if he had been heading right here, to her, since before he’d even thought to take a drive this night.
He reached between them, pulling himself out. And there was no fumbling. There was no hesitation. He found his way to her entrance and found her molten.
Always molten hot. Always his.
And he thrust himself deep inside.
Timoney shattered again, this time on a silent scream that still managed to echo around within him.
Filling him. Scalding him.
Changing him, he thought.
He pulled her off her little couch and on top of him, so that she was straddling him where he knelt. Timoney came easily, gracefully. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and took her time straightening, lifting her head from where it had fallen back.
And he could see the chaos in the blue of her eyes then. He could growl at the way she bit her lip.
“If you want me,” he told her, in a low voice, “you must take me, Timoney.”
He watched the way all that heat flashed in her eyes. He could feel inside him.
It had always been like this. One fire burning too bright in both of them, consuming everything. Taking them over. Making them ash and cinder, flame and fury.
A more beautiful immolation Crete could not imagine, then or now.
And then he found himself gritting his teeth as she began to move.
He had remembered every inch of her. Every touch committed to memory and trotted out to haunt him each night. Every moment of need and hunger made real since that first kiss. Since she’d lowered herself before him, tipped back her head, and stolen his breath.
Here, now, he could admit—if only to himself—that he had thought of little else since she had quit his flat.
And still, somehow, it was as if he’d forgotten how bright she was, how intense. Or had diluted her effect on him, somehow, in the recollection.
It was the way she lifted herself, pulling away from his length and then dropping herself down again, making them both gasp a little at that slick, hot fit.
She was perfection, taking all of him and gripping him tight.
And she was his.
He had taught her this, this lush and lyrical dance. He had shown her all the different ways that they could light each other on fire. How to build these flames so that they danced high.
