Claiming His Secret Son(34)

Almost every surprise he’d ever had had involved her. This one almost had him launching himself at her as she passed one of the couches, tackling her facedown and thrusting inside her before they even landed on it.

He held back only because he wanted to let her take this where she wanted, to savor the torment of watching her disrobe for him, exposing her glory to his aching, covetous gaze. The contrast between the pitiless seduction of her action and her straitlaced stride made it all the more mind-meltingly arousing.

Once in his lower-floor bedroom, he could barely see her until he remembered he could turn on the lights with a whisper.

The expansive space filled with the subdued lighting he preferred, showcasing her beauty in golden highlights and arcane shadows. At the foot of his bed, she turned, wearing only white bikini panties and same-color, three-inch-heeled sandals. Her eyes were burning sapphires.

He approached, waiting for her to say or do something. She only stood there looking up at him.

Suddenly the urge to inspect her body, with the insight of new realizations, knowing she’d given birth to his child, overtook him. His eyes swept her voluptuousness, luxuriating in her as a whole before basking in each asset separately.

Her hips were lush with femininity, her waist a sharp concavity, her legs long and smooth, her shoulders square and strong. Every curve and line and swell of her was the epitome of womanliness, the exact pattern that activated his libido. Each inch of her had ripened to its utmost potential. He now realized it wasn’t only time but motherhood that had effected the change.

Turning his savoring from visual to tactile, he caressed her buttocks, her back, leaving her firm belly for last. His skull tightened over his brain as he imagined her ripening every day with the child they’d made together during one of their pleasure-drenched deliriums. The idea of his seed taking root inside her, growing into a new life, that vibrant, brilliant boy who’d rocked the foundations of his world last night, turned his arousal into agony. He needed to claim her, to mark her with his essence again...now.

Wrestling with the savagery of his need, he skimmed his hands up to her breasts. Blood roared in his ears, his loins, as their warmth and resilience overflowed in his hands. He stared at the ripened perfection of her, the need to know if she’d breastfed Mauricio scalding him, the images searing him body and mind.

Unbidden, another image flared in his mind, heightening the imaginary inferno. Her, holding another baby, one he’d get to see her breastfeed.

Recoiling from the agonizing visions, he squeezed her supple flesh, his fingers unsteady with emotion and mounting hunger as he circled the buds he’d tasted during so many rides to ecstasy, thicker, darker now, and much more mouthwatering. And now he knew why.

Before he bent to silence the clamoring and engulf her nipples, she slithered from his hold and lowered to her knees.

Mashing her face into his loins, she kissed his erection, her hands trembling over the zipper, dragging his pants down.

“I didn’t get to touch and taste you again...”

Her gasp of greed as he thudded heavily in her waiting grasp juddered through him. Relief and distress speared through him in equal measure as she worshipped him, the only touch and need he’d ever craved, measuring his girth, rubbing her face over his length, inhaling and smooching and nibbling. Then with a stifled cry of urgency, she opened her mouth over his crown, swirled her hot tongue over its smoothness, moaning continuously as she lapped up the copious flow of his arousal as if its taste was the sustenance she’d been starving for.

The sight alone, of her kneeling in front of him, of her gleaming head at his loins, of her lips, deep rose and swollen and wrapped around his erection, almost made him come.

Stepping out of what felt like burning cloth, he tried to savor it all, caressed the hair that rained over her face, held it away in one hand so he could revel in her every move and expression, bending to run his other hand over the sweep of her back, the flare of her hips. But she started rubbing herself sinuously against his legs like a feline in heat and he lost the fight.

He dragged her up, growling. Before he threw her back on the bed and mounted her, she climbed him, wrapped her legs around his hips and ground her moist heat over his erection. He tore her panties off, digging his fingers into her buttocks, making her cry out, crash her lips into his.

Her tongue delved inside his mouth, tangling in abandon with his as if she was bent on extracting everything inside him. He let her storm him, show him the ferocity of her craving, rumbles of pained pleasure escaping from his depths.

Her voice, roughened by abandon, filled him. “Take me, Richard. Or should I call you Rex?”