Fire Bound (Sea Haven Sisters)(142)
She wrapped her cast around his back and leaned into him as she rode him. Slow. Easy. Her muscles tight. Her body hot. A lazy, sexy ride that she hoped made him feel as loved as she was trying to convey with her body. He nuzzled her shoulder, his mouth on the side of her neck. She’d have a strawberry there.
She rode him for a long while, holding him close, savoring their bond. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear. “I love you more than life, Casimir. I’ll always love you.” She spiraled down his shaft, a slow, tight fist gloving him. Stroking him with scorching-hot caresses. Slowly milking him. An exquisite torture.
He bit her gently, right where he’d sucked and licked. The spot that drove her wild. The little bite of pain sent sparks radiating through her body. She cried out. Dug her nails into his shoulder.
“Not yet, malyshka.”
She took a breath. She was so close. So very close. She hadn’t thought it was possible, not going so slow. Not with her doing all the work. She hadn’t even recognized that she was coiling so tight, the pressure building, the fire burning so hot. She was so busy working him, wanting this moment for him, that she hadn’t even seen that she was so close.
“I don’t want it over. Not yet.”
She breathed deeply. For him. Stopping herself. For him. She didn’t want to end this moment either. She was in his arms – safe. She’d always be safe with him.
“I love you, Giacinta Prakenskii. So much. You’re my life. My everything. There’s no more danger for you. No more putting yourself in harm’s way. I can’t ever do that again. Those hours without knowing…” His body shuddered against hers. His hand slid down to her bottom, fingers digging deep as he urged her body into a deeper, faster rhythm.
Fire streaked through her. She actually felt the stark terror unfolding in him for her. She thought it was the worst, those hours under the desk while overhead the roof creaked and spread more debris. On the floor were the dead men, crushed beneath the heavy fall of cement, rock and dirt. His terror was worse. She knew that. He’d been safe. He hadn’t known what happened to her.
“Say it,” he demanded, his other hand sliding down the curve of her back to her hip. “Say you’re finished.”
“Anything for you, honey,” she whispered.
“Anything?” His hips bucked up hard into her.
The fire turned scorching. Her breath left her lungs in a rush. “The world.”
“Babies?”
“Anything. All of it.”
“Now, malyshka, with me now.”
She fragmented. Shattered into a million pieces. He was there. Casimir. To catch her. To keep her safe. To put all those pieces back together. He was there. She laid her head against him, gasping for breath while her body rocked around his, gripped his like a vise, a velvet, silken glove, squeezing and milking so that he was right there with her. She would have collapsed, but his arms held her tight against him. They held each other for a long time.
“I wanted you to feel loved,” she whispered.
“I feel loved,” he answered. “I want to go home. I’ve never had a home, and that farm of yours feels like the real thing.”
“It is the real thing. And it’s ours. We’re married.” She lifted her head and frowned up at him, suspicion in her eyes. “You don’t have a really weird chair or something ugly you’re going to want to put in our front room, do you?”
He laughed and she felt his laughter vibrate right through his body to hers. She wanted to hear his laughter until the day she died. “I love you,” she whispered again. Meaning it. She had that now. Her own family. Her sisters. His brothers. Casimir Prakenskii. Her husband.
SHADOW RIDER
Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book
in the new Shadow series by Christine Feehan
Shadow Rider
Coming in 2016 from Piatkus
Stefano Ferraro pulled on soft leather driving gloves, his dark blue eyes taking a long, slow scan around the neighborhood. His neighborhood. His family knew everything that happened there. It was a good place to live, the people loyal. A close-knit community. It was safe because his family kept it safe. Women could walk the streets alone at night. Children could play outside without their parents fearing for them.
He knew every shop owner, every homeowner by name. The Ferraro family territory started just on the edge of Little Italy. He knew every inch of Little Italy as well, and those residing and working there knew him and his family. Crime stopped at the edge of the Ferraro territory. That invisible line was known by even the most hardened of criminals, and no one dared to cross it because retaliation was always swift and brutal.