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“Arms over your head, angel,” he directed gruffly.
I raised my arms on either side of my head, my elbows bent, my hands hanging loose behind my head, my body impaled and stretched out before him. His hands hit my ribs and he leaned in, lavishing both breasts with his tongue, his beard a soft rasp over my dampened nipples.
He released me slowly and sat back, stretching his arms out across the back of the couch. My eyes traveled the width of his wide, muscled chest, along the cords and dips and valleys of the muscles of his arms before coming back to his face, harsh with need and tight with restraint.
“Ride me,” he demanded, his deep voice gritty.
I started to move, oh, the bliss of connection!
“Can I come?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I watched his face as he watched me move over him, I kept my focus as long as I could, watched his eyes go dark as they wandered over my face and body. I watched as his face tightened harshly, enthralled as he pressed his lips together in a thin line, holding back his orgasm. I was paying so much attention to him that my own orgasm took me by surprise.
My head fell back into my own hands, and I cried out. He palmed my ribs, holding me, supporting me, and waited for the last spasm to dissipate before drawing me down to lie against his chest. He stroked lazily up and down my back even as I felt him twitching inside me.
“What about you?” I murmured.
“You ready to continue?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes.” I rubbed the side of my face against his.
He brought my forehead to his and placed my arms on his shoulders, my hands to the back of his neck while his hands roamed freely over my body.
“Willa,” he whispered my name, his voice almost pained, and then he flexed his hips.
My neck arched back at the pleasure.
“Eyes, Willa, give me your eyes,” he intoned.
I brought my forehead back to his. He flexed again and my eyes rolled back in my head. He chuckled, kissed the side of my face, dragged his beard down the side of my throat, and scraped his teeth at the juncture between my neck and my shoulder.
“Viking,” I murmured, “what you do to me…”
My words unleashed something in him. He gripped my hips and drove up inside me, hard, just once, and then he stilled, the tension locked down and coiled inside him. I felt the tremor as it rolled through him. His fingers pressed into my hips, holding me down onto him. His breath came harsh.
“I waited,” he rasped, his voice gruff, “I bided my time, I gave you space, I was patient, put your needs first,” he grunted roughly, driving up inside me again, “I promise you, angel, you have nothing to worry about. I won’t allow anything or anyone to come between us.”
“Okay, Viking, okay, Barrett…” I panted.
I could do nothing but agree as he drove inside me relentlessly. When I broke again he let himself go, lifting his hips off the seat, his abs flexing wildly. I watched his face, the grimace of passion, the softening of the planes of his face when he came down matched the softening of his touch. He cradled my limp form against his solid chest, and I felt him sigh.
“No walls, Willa. I promise, you won’t need them.”
I nodded against his shoulder, hoping he was right. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he wouldn’t need them either.
After a few moments he patted my hip and made motions to get up.
“I want to shower with you,” he murmured. I swung off him and he pulled me gently to my feet.
In the bathroom he set the water temperature, stepped in, and pulled me in beside him. I did not have a large shower and I wondered what he thought was going to happen there, but it was I who was surprised. He soaped up his hands and ran them lovingly over my body, kneading my tense muscles, dropping soft kisses on my cheeks, at the corner of my mouth, on my shoulders and the back of my neck when he turned me away from him. The rest of the tension from the evening slowly eased from my body.
Holding his soft gaze, I soaped up my hands and ran them over his shoulders, leaving a film of soap over the tattoos that wrapped around his shoulder and down his arm. I’d never had the opportunity to explore him up until that point. I ran my finger across the row of initials.
“What are the initials?” I asked.
“My family’s first initials, starting with my dad.”
