“Fuck!”
Her walls clamped down around his fingers, thick waves of pulses squeezing him tight as she arched backward, the hand in his hair yanking hard, sending a shock of pain and need straight down to the roots.
And he was dying for it. Was desperate to rise up over her and get himself right up in all that slick, shove himself home and take what he wanted.
Except before he could even ask—before she could give him that look again, the one that turned all thoughts of his own pleasure to ash and dust, she was urging him upward.
He parted from her sex, tugging his fingers free, and then she was kissing the wetness from his lips.
“You’re welcome,” she said. It was breathless and harsh, needy in a way he’d yet to hear from her.
And practically before the syllables were out, she was shoving him over. Getting him onto his back on the bed, and straddling his hips, and he was so ready he could scarcely think to slow things down.
But he didn’t have to.
Before doubt could creep in, she put his hand where he was aching for her and cupped him oh so perfectly through his jeans. Her face was flushed and mottled, her hair a mess, and she was beautiful.
She rose up over him and said, “Now it’s my turn to thank you.”
Kate’s body was still pulsing with aftershocks and she was kneeling there, bare beneath her skirt with her hand on a man’s cock. He’d made her come, and it had been so easy. In these few short days he’d stripped her of her inhibitions, and without them, she’d had nothing left to do but spread her legs and hold on to his hair and let him.
And she was so grateful it hurt.
She didn’t have any condoms—she hadn’t come to Paris planning for any of this—but she bet he did. Ignoring the taste that lingered there, she kissed his mouth and closed her eyes. She planted one hand beside his head while with the other she worked at his fly. These past few times, she’d scarcely touched him, and he’d seemed fine with that, but it was time.
Fear closed the back of her throat, but she pushed it down.
Goddammit all.
She was sick and tired of her own hang-ups, of letting the past taint the present the way she always did, in her life and in this bed. This time, sex would work. It had to work.
A little of the fog of orgasm cleared as she got her hand into his boxers, curling it around hard flesh. He was big, but she was as ready as she’d ever be. It probably wouldn’t hurt. And she’d be glad she had, later. When she was back in New York alone, remembering the only man who’d ever made her feel like this, and he was here, doing whatever he’d done before he’d decided to do it with her.
A noise of distress fought its way past her throat.
“Hey. Hey.”
A warm hand cupped her jaw, edging her away. She sat back, and he grasped her wrist, stilling it against his flesh. His eyes were dark with need, and he was hard in her grasp. She gazed down at him, confused. “What?”
He shook his head. “You seemed a little . . .” He trailed off, but she could hear the words, and her skin felt hot. Frigid, scared, stiff. He stroked his thumb against her cheek, and his voice went softer. “I want you. So much. But we only do what you want to do, and if you’re not ready . . .” He shrugged, but he let go of her wrist, sliding his hand up her arm to her shoulder.
God, this was so frustrating. She wanted to be ready. He’d made her feel so good, and if she was ever going to love sex, it would be with him.
Except, in the end, a voice in the back of her mind whispered no.
Forget the fear of physical pain.
Her heart clenched just looking at him. The sharp corners of the jaw that had drawn her in in the first place, and then the things she’d come to love about him since then. The wavy, dark strands of his hair and how they stood up on end once she’d had her hands in them. The subtle cleft of his chin.
The depths behind the piercing blue of his eyes.
He was beautiful and wounded, kind and gentle and so guarded that when he let her see even a fraction of himself, it took her breath away. Already, she felt too much. If she let him inside of her, if he made it as good as he had promised to . . .
Her ribs squeezed so tightly it ached.
If she let this happen between them, how would she ever stop herself from loving him?
The answer pulsed its way through her chest: She couldn’t.
She couldn’t go through with this.
He must have seen her decision slide across her face, because the questions around his eyes smoothed away. He pulled her down for another kiss. “It’s fine.” The words washed warm against her lips. He grinned. “I may die a little, but it’s fine.”
And she couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I wouldn’t want that.”
“A little death never hurt anybody.”
She chuckled at the pun, unsure if it had been intentional or not, but then it didn’t matter anymore, because his mouth was warm and soft, the kisses tasting of heat, and of a fire barely banked. His hands traversed her spine and sides, slowly coming to rest on her hips. A shiver moved through her. Her body hummed with satisfaction, but want still pulsed through her veins.
She wanted to give him something.
With her eyes closed, she parted from his mouth to kiss down the line of his throat, rasping her teeth against the stubble on his jaw. It was rough, his skin salty and male, and the little spot of boldness in her grew.
“Kate . . .” He threaded his fingers through her hair, neither pushing her up nor down so much as holding on.
There was something more than want or need or even boldness going on here. Something like power.
Her reservations slid away as she undid one button of his shirt and then the next. There was still the cotton layer of his undershirt beneath it, but she kissed her way along the center of his chest regardless. When she reached the bottom of his rib cage, she shoved the fabric up. His abdomen was firm and smooth. She nosed the lines of muscle, flicked out the tip of her tongue to taste the flesh beside his navel.
With a deep breath, she pushed aside the open denim of his jeans.
His fingers tightened against her scalp. “You don’t have to.”
She looked up the length of his body, and God, his eyes. The sensation of power in her hands swelled. “Do you want me to?”
He threw his head back, exposing the line of his throat, huffing out a sigh of laughter that sounded pained. “Fuck. More than anything.” He looked at her again, lifting his other hand to draw a fingertip along the edges of her lips. “Your mouth would look so good around my cock.”
Her heart felt like it skipped a beat, and even sated as she was, her sex throbbed. She lowered her head, resting her brow against his hip.
Then, before she could stop herself, she tugged the waistband of his boxers down.
She’d seen him before. Touched him and let him come against her, but being so close was another thing entirely. He smelled like sex, and he felt like silk beneath her fingertips, searing hot and wet at the tip. When she skimmed her thumb down the length of him, the foreskin shifted, uncovering more of the dusky flesh beneath.
Sated as she was, a tickle of arousal moved through her, and she was tempted to dive right in. To find out what noises he made when she was the one bringing him to the edge. But he’d been so patient with her, had taken the time to find out exactly what drove her mad.
She barely recognized her own voice, deepened by lust, as she asked, “What about you? What do you like?”
“Your hands on me.” His breath cut off when she curled her fingers around his base. “Fuck.” As she took a slow stroke up the shaft, his eyes slipped closed, his head tipping back. “Everything you’re doing feels good.”