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Angelina couldn’t bear it. Not one more minute. She writhed beneath Alec’s tongue, her hands fisted in the cotton sheets, her body arching, arching, as if she could dislodge his hold on her and escape that way. But he held her hips firm, his tongue making forays into her core, then back up to tease and torment the little nub that throbbed and swelled and threatened to overwhelm her desire to hold back, to not let him—
Then she exploded, crying his name, wanting it to be over but also wanting it to last forever. La petite mort—the little death—as the French called it. And it was. It was.
Alec refused to stop until she was shaking and trembling, until she collapsed boneless and sobbing for breath, unable to do anything else. Then he slid up her body, grabbed a condom from the handful he’d placed on the nightstand, rolled it on and thrust deep. Angelina came again almost immediately, her nails digging into his buttocks, pulling him tightly into her body as he flexed and thrust, flexed and thrust. Again. Then again. She came one last time seconds before he came, too—a powerful orgasmic explosion that tore her name from his throat.
Alec lay there for a few seconds, his eyes closed as he dragged one shuddering breath after another into his body. Then he withdrew carefully, disposed of the condom and settled back onto the bed. He tugged gently until she lay with her back against him, one of his strong arms curved around her waist to anchor her in place.
She thought he was dozing because his breathing was deep and even, but then he whispered in her ear in Zakharan. Sexy words. Incredibly intimate words. At first, her body reacted as if he’d caressed her— nipples tightening, a throbbing in her loins—but then she suddenly wondered how many other Zakharian women he’d slept with since his arrival...and which one had taught him those words.
He must have noticed her slight stiffening, must have read her mind, because he said intently—still in Zakharan—“I’ve never used those words in bed, Angel. You’re my first...in that way.”
She believed him. Just as she believed him when he said, “It’s been a long time for me. Longer than a man likes to admit, even to himself.” His hand slid down until it was nestled at the crux of her thighs, fingers brushing lightly. Reminding her of what they’d just shared numerous times. “But that’s not why I’m here,” he told her, his deep voice quiet in the stillness of the night. “I’m here because you’re the only one I want. Tell me you feel the same way.”
She sighed—an acknowledgment and an acceptance of his explanation—and let herself relax back against him. “I do,” she admitted.
“Good.”
Before she realized it, he drifted off. She didn’t mind. She loved having Alec hold her this way, even in sleep, his semi-arousal pressed up against her backside. Although, she thought with a quick flare of humor, he should not be capable of being aroused at all. Not after all the times we...
Stamina. Alec had unbelievable stamina, and apparently, so did she. But now she was exhausted, although she was still too wired to sleep. They’d slept like the dead between bouts of intense sexual pleasure, but never more than an hour at a time. And each time they’d awakened, Alec had given her two or three orgasms for each one of his. Her body was sated—more than sated.
This last time had been the worst—or the best—depends on how you look at it, she reminded herself with a satisfied smile. He’d used his fingers, watching her face and deriving pleasure from making her come despite herself. Then, when she’d grasped him firmly, wanting to torment him in return, he’d escaped her hold and slid down her body. Starting with her toes, he’d slowly worked his way up her ankles, her calves, the backs of her knees, her thighs. All this before he really got to work with his tongue at the apex of her thighs.
She sighed deeply at the memories. All good. If I never have sex again, I’ll die a happy woman, she thought dreamily.
“Come for me,” he’d told her, coaxing her into letting go with the deep voice that never failed to thrill her—his voice alone had made her shudder. “That’s right, Angel. That’s right. Come for me.” And she had. She’d been embarrassed at how easily he’d been able to entice her first climax out of her with just his fingers. Not to mention how embarrassed she’d felt admitting to him this was only her second time with a man. And the first time she’d enjoyed it.
But he hadn’t let her be embarrassed. Not that first time. Not any time. He’d encouraged her to touch him everywhere. She’d used her hands. Lips. Tongue. Teeth. And just as he said he would, he’d told her what he liked, how he liked it. How long he liked it. And he’d coaxed her into telling him what she liked, how she liked it. How long she liked it. Until they knew each other intimately. Until they no longer had to say a word. Until everything just meshed...every time.
