Gripping her hips with his big hands, he began to impale her slowly, inch by mind-blowingly delicious inch. Relentlessly he usurped every nook and cranny her body ceded.
“Can you take more, Jessica? I’m not yet half in, lass. Am I hurting you?”
“No! I mean, yes! I mean, yes and then no! Yes. More!”
He pushed yet more of himself in, stretching her, filling her, long and thick and hard.
She whimpered, clinging to the desk. It was unlike anything she’d imagined. She was certain there was no way she could take more of him inside her, but then her sleek inner heat would not only yield but thrill to him, both stretch and embrace, ease yet tighten hungrily around him. She was a velvet glove, custom-crafted for him. She’d been made for this man, she marveled, designed to sheathe him.
With one final, strong push, he thrust himself in to the hilt, the silky hair on his muscular thighs rasping against her silky bottom, and she cried out from the fullness of it. It was pain yet pleasure, it was too much, yet just exactly right. She was full of him, part of him, her body melting around him, adhering to him, making them one. It was raw, it was fierce, it was incredible.
Then he began moving! Easing out, inch by incredible inch, leaving her hot and empty and aching.
Filling her back up just as slowly. Driving himself into her sleek heat.
Cian stared down at Jessica’s pretty, silken ass as he worked himself in and out of her. Bloody hell, she was tight and hot and slick.
And virgin. He couldn’t believe it. He was stunned that this incredibly passionate, beautiful, smart woman had never lain with another man. He’d never have guessed it. He’d thought her an experienced woman.
But not Jessica. She’d come to him untouched by any other. And though it wouldn’t have mattered to him how she’d come, the fact that he was her first man, that he was the only one she’d chosen to accept, with the countless men who had undoubtedly tried to get where he was right now, filled him with an intense possessiveness, gave him a primal, masculine thrill.
The need to spill his seed in her had been riding him merciless as a Harpy since he’d pumped that first inch inside. He’d damn near exploded when he’d pushed through her maidenhead.
He stared down at her, bent over the desk, her delicate spine arched, the paler skin of her full breasts crushed to the desk, the generous plump mounds spilling out the sides, her small, dainty hands stretched above her head, fingers clutching the wood, her lush, sweet ass thrusting up to meet him, he watched himself pump into her. It was the most exquisite, sensual sight he’d ever seen.
He thought of his prison, to maintain control. He needed her to find her pleasure before he took his.
Gritting his teeth, he began mentally reciting the parameters of his hell. Fifty-two thousand, nine hundred and eighty-seven stones.
He wanted to give her so much pleasure that each time she looked at him, her body would remember what he could make her feel, and begin hungering for it. Twenty-seven thousand two hundred and sixteen of them paler gray than the rest.
He wanted to be her every sexual fantasy, as well as her man and her rock and her best friend. Thirty-six thousand and four more rectangular than square.
He slipped one hand in front of her, between her woman’s mound and the desk, found her silken nub with his thumb and began playing it, rolling his pad over it, lightly, gently. Nine hundred and eighteen stones have a vaguely hexagonal shape. Then faster and more firmly. Then backing off again, lightly, gently, rubbing slow circles all around her clitoris, without actually grazing it.
“Oooh—Cian, that feels so good!”
He eased out of her slowly, thrust back in powerfully. Teasing her nub with alternately slow and gentle, then frantic friction, he slid two fingers over her slick, swollen mound, pushing between her lips, to feel where they joined, where the thick, rock-hard shaft of his cock was entering her. Where they became one. Ninety-two stones have a vein of bronze running through the face. Three are cracked.
Jessi writhed deliriously beneath Cian’s sensual assault. One of his big hands was on her behind, firmly cupping a cheek, holding her still; the other was between her legs from the front, delicately, expertly working her clit, backing off until she was ready to scream, resuming again just when and how she needed it. She gripped the edge of the desk, quivering uncontrollably, as if being shocked by little sizzling erotic pulses.
Her orgasm ripped through her so suddenly and intensely that she cried out, a long, wild half-sob, half-scream. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and lay whimpering helplessly beneath him, shuddering with wave after wave of pleasure, taking all he was giving her, convulsing as he milked every last ripple of climax from her with his pounding, with his clever, relentless hand.