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He was in her to the hilt, a heavy, stretching presence. He buried his head against her shoulder, shuddering with relief as if he couldn’t have borne another moment unconnected to her.
This wasn’t the John Medina she knew, this man with his desperate need. He was always so controlled, but there was nothing controlled about him now.
She smoothed her hands down his back, feeling the powerful muscles rippling just under his skin. “There’s a concept I want to introduce to you,” she murmured. “It’s called foreplay.”
He lifted his head from her shoulder, smiling wryly. Propping himself on his elbows, settling more comfortably on her and in her, he framed her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “I’m a desperate man. Any time you let me touch you, I’m going to get inside you as fast as I can, before you have time to change your mind.”
The words shocked her, hinting at a vulnerability, a need, she never would have suspected he felt.
He moved, a slow stroke that set off a small riot in her nerve endings. She gasped, her legs rising to clasp his hips. “Why would I change my mind?” she managed to ask.
“Things haven’t always been . . . easy between us.”
Things weren’t easy between them now. There was tension and pain and uncertainty, an explosive sexual attraction, even a spark of hostility caused by the clash of two strong personalities. There was nothing serene about her relationship with him, never had been.
She slid her fingers into the damp strands of his hair, holding him as she lifted her hips and did her own stroking. “If I wanted an easy ride, I’d find a merry-go-round.”
His entire body tightened, and his eyes burned laser blue. He seemed to lose his ability to breathe. She did it again, lifting to take him deep, then clamping all her internal muscles on him and holding him tight as she pulled back, milking him with her body. A harsh groan burst out of his throat. “Then hold on tight, honey, because it’s gonna be long and hard.”
“Actually,” she purred, “it already is.”
The smothered sound he made was almost a laugh. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Then show me what you did mean.”
That look was back in his eyes again, that unreadable wall behind which something elusive moved. “A lot of different things,” he murmured. “But for now, we’ll concentrate on this one.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Niema woke in his arms the next morning. She lay quietly, still drowsing, slipping back and forth between sleep and awareness. She was curled on her left side and he was a solid wall behind her, his legs tangled with hers and his arm a heavy weight over her hip. His breath was warm on her shoulder.
She hadn’t slept with a man like this since Dallas, she thought sleepily, the name resonating gently in her mind. No—John was the last man she had slept with. The realization was a shock. She remembered that awful time in Iran, the way he had held her and gentled her to sleep, then held her the next morning while she wept, when she woke and realized he wasn’t Dallas, that Dallas would never again hold her in the night.
She couldn’t see the clock, but it was almost dawn; the sky was beginning to lighten. They had been in bed—what, sixteen, seventeen hours? Making love, sleeping, making love again. He had gotten up once and brought back a tray of bread and cheese and fruit, and that had been their supper. Other than that they hadn’t left the cabin except to visit the head.
She felt lethargic, content to be right where she was. Her entire body was relaxed, sated, well-used.
His lips brushed the back of her neck and she realized he was awake. She made a slight nestling movement, sighing with pleasure. How she enjoyed this, waking in the early morning, held close by the man she loved; there were few things in life more satisfying.
His morning erection prodded her, rising insistently against her bottom. She started to turn over but he stayed her with a murmur, adjusting his position and guiding himself to her opening. She arched her back, giving him a better angle. He put his hand on her stomach, bracing her, and pushed. He went slowly inside her; she was morning soft, morning wet, but their positions made her body yield reluctantly to his intrusion. She breathed through her mouth, trying to stay relaxed. With her legs together there wasn’t much room inside her; he felt huge, stretching her to the limit.
The sensation bordered on pain, but was also its own turn-on. She pressed her head back against his shoulder, struggling to contain the feeling and yet take more of him. Another inch pushed into her and she moaned.
He paused. “Are you all right?” His voice was low, smoky with sleep and desire.
She didn’t know. Maybe. “Yes,” she whispered.
He stroked his right hand up to her breasts, lightly rubbing his fingertips on the lower slope, the way he had learned she liked. The subtle caress lit a gentle glow of pleasure, prepared her nipples for more direct contact. That came from his thumb, slowly moving over them, circling them until they hardened and stabbed into his covering palm. It was scary how fast he had caught on to all the small subtleties of how she liked to be touched, scary that his attention had been so focused on her that he hadn’t missed a single hitch in her breath. After just one night, he knew her body as well as she did.
He slipped his left arm under her, curving it around her waist and cupping his hand over her mound. His middle finger slid between her fold, pressing lightly on her clitoris. Not rubbing, just pressing, holding his finger there. Then he began to thrust, using long, slow strokes that moved her body back and forth against his finger.
She cried out, jerking under the lash of pleasure. He whispered something soothing and steadied her, then resumed the motion.
“I wanted you the first time I saw you,” he murmured. “God, how I envied Dallas!” His right hand stroked up and down her torso, piling sensation on top of sensation. “I stayed away from you for five long, fucking years. I gave you every chance to settle down with Mr. Right, but you didn’t take them and I’m through with waiting. You’re mine now, Niema. Mine.”
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