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Just sex, she told herself. It was just sex. His kisses meant nothing, the tenderness meant nothing.
It was just sex.
It meant nothing.
So why did it feel so very good?
His lips moved over hers like a piece of music, a symphony that built and grew and slowed to tender lows and soared to great heights and everywhere in between.
His hands traced a path down her throat. She felt the brush of silken straps over her shoulders and the slip of her dress as it fell to the floor. She felt air that cooled and caressed her naked breasts and turned her nipples even harder.
She felt his hands slide down her bare back and pull her against him.
She felt him, long and hard against her belly. Felt the aching need for him between her thighs and her hand moved of its own volition, unable to resist the temptation to curl her fingers over that rigid column.
Breath hissed through his teeth. He lifted her from the circle of her dress and into his arms, took three long strides and tossed her into the centre of the waiting bed. Chest heaving as if he’d run a marathon, he looked down at her on the bed, eyes raking down over a body clad in nothing but gossamer-thin shreds of silken underwear, a pair of killer heels and a pair of earrings, while his hands were busy pulling off his shirt, his shoes, his trousers.
She could not take her eyes from him, from the lean and sculpted perfection of his body, from the heart-stopping size of his erection as it sprang free. Looking at him made her blood fizz and her flesh ache.
And then he kneeled alongside her on the bed and slipped off first one shoe and then the other, kissing the soles of her feet, sliding his hands up her legs to catch the scrap of silk that was her underwear, sliding it down and tossing it over his shoulder.
‘Did anyone ever tell you,’ he said, his voice thick with need as he gazed down upon her naked form, ‘that you look amazing in sapphires?’
She was sure she would have remembered if someone had, but right now there was no space for raking up memories, no room for anything that might have happened in the past. This moment was all about what was happening now.
He lowered his head and put his mouth to her breast, drawing it in, rolling his tongue around her nipple while one hand swept down her body from neck to breast to thigh to knee, his long fingers spread wide, missing nothing, leaving no part of her untouched, leaving no part of her to his imagination. Through his scorching touch, he drank her in until she felt more liquid than solid, her senses flowing, eddying.
She shuddered under the heated assault, her senses alive, her need building like a whirlpool; spinning as he rained hot kisses down her belly; spinning as he spread her legs wide and dipped his head between her aching thighs.
The first touch of his tongue was electric, sending her arching against the mattress. She cried out, something incomprehensible—meaningless—other than as a reflection of the exquisite agony of his hot tongue circling her pulsing core, and his clever lips toying with that screamingly tight bud of nerve endings. And all the while the whirlpool built inside her, sucking her deeper, rendering her senseless, her world ever shrinking, until it consisted of nothing more than a spinning sea of sensation.
She was lost in that sea. Cast adrift. And still it wasn’t enough. Still she needed more.
‘Tell me that you want me,’ he murmured, sensing her distress, and she felt his words on her secret flesh.
Her head thrashed on the pillow. ‘I hate you.’
He caught her between his lips, suckled harder.
‘Tell me that you want me.’
‘I want you,’ she half cried, half sobbed, the confession wrenched bodily from her as he continued to work magic with his mouth, as the circling storm inside her wound tighter and inexorably tighter like a coiled spring until she would die with it.
‘I want you now!’
And his mouth was gone and she had one moment of relief, one moment of loss, before she felt him nudge at her core and drive himself home.
It was the trigger she needed, the trigger that released that achingly tight coiling spring and sent her soaring. She exploded around him as he held her and filled her and completed her.
‘You should hate me more often,’ he joked as she came down from the high, her body slick and hot and humming in secret places.
‘I do,’ she said, panting, hating him right now for his ability to do that to her, to turn her incendiary with his clever hands and clever mouth.
‘Good,’ he said, moving inside her, making her gasp as she realised he was still hard. ‘Keep on hating me.’
She could do that. But there was no time to tell him, no time to get her breath back. He leaned back, lifted a lifeless leg and flipped her neatly onto her front before she knew what was happening, all the time still buried deep inside her.
