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But this wasn’t cooling him. It was heating him, burning him from the inside out, the chill on his skin evaporated by the heat running through his veins.
Paige turned and opened the freezer again, producing her own ice cube, a wicked grin on her face. She separated the top four buttons on his shirt and pressed the ice to his chest. Burning cold assaulted him, but it did nothing to cool the fire that was streaking through his body.
He was shaking, his entire body in pain with the need to free himself and sink into her. To be joined to her. Lost in her. To find the ultimate heat and burn alive in it.
He pushed her back against the fridge, every last ounce of his control gone. He pressed her hand against his chest, letting the ice burn, then numb, melting against his skin as he kissed her lips, as he devoured her.
She freed her hands and reached around behind him, tugging his shirt up out of his pants and unbuttoning it quickly, shrugging it off his shoulders and leaving it on the ground. And he didn’t care.
He pushed her pajama pants down, along with her panties—the panties that proved just how little she’d expected to be having another sexual encounter with all their sensible cottonness—and kicked them to the side. He reached around, cupped her butt and lifted her so that her legs were wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck.
He moved, turning them both, and pinning her against the wall. He used one hand to open his belt, undo his slacks and jerk his pants partway down, releasing his erection and sliding it through her moist folds.
She tightened her hold on him, her fingernails biting his skin, sharp pain piercing his flesh, ramping up his need.
“Dio, yes.” He slid inside of her, her body hot around him, perfect. So wet and sweet. He thrust up hard and she gasped, blue eyes opening wide. “Okay?”
She bit her lip, nodding. She was so perfect. So very Paige. There was no woman like her anywhere, no woman who had ever made him feel this way.
And then there was no thought. There was only feeling. Burning in his chest and lungs, tightness in his gut, the pressure of impending release, building, building until he was certain he would burst with it. He gritted his teeth, tightening his hold on her hips as he thrust hard into her.
She let her head fall back against the wall, a strangled cry on her lips, her internal muscles pulsing around him, heightening his own need.
Finally, he gave in, pushing into her one last time, orgasm exploding through him, pleasure that was almost pain curling itself around every muscle, every vein, overtaking his entire body as he spilled himself inside of her.
His thighs shook, trembled. He set her down, making sure her feet were planted firmly on the floor before letting himself sink to his knees in front of her, his hands braced on the wall.
He put his head down, trying to catch his breath, trying to clear his mind. He felt full, and completely drained at the same time. Weak, depleted. In need. But there was no room for anything else in him, nothing but the intensity of the desire that was still ignited in his chest, in his bones.
He pushed away from the wall, away from her, and stood. “I’m going to shower,” he said. He had to escape. Had to put distance between them. As much as he’d needed it after the first time, he needed it more now.
He turned and walked away from her, leaving her there, naked against the kitchen wall, regret clinging to him like a film on his skin.
When he got to his bathroom, he turned the water on cold and put himself directly under the spray, trying to ease the feeling. To numb himself inside and out. He put his hand on the tiled wall and leaned forward, struggling to catch his breath beneath the icy assault.
Cold that would normally have wiped his mind clean, now made him think of the ice cube on his chest, followed by the warmth of her hands, her lips, her…
He had been out of his mind. Absolutely and completely. She had done it to him, had pushed him past the point of return. And he knew better. He knew.
For every loss of control there was a cost. He had lost his control. He had taken her without a condom. Without any consideration for how innocent she really was. For how sweet she was. For the fact that she wasn’t the kind of woman you pinned to the wall and screwed.
He hit the tile with his fist, the stone hard beneath his hand, the grout biting into his flesh. He did it again. And again. Again until the pain shot up his arm, burned in his shoulder, left the skin on his fist raw, bleeding.
