“Just let me have you the way I want, the way I need to have you.”
Oh boy. The ache between her thighs had already reached viselike clutching proportions. She could only nod. Something about the fatigue and the need in those caramel-candy eyes of his prevented her from trying to turn this around. But it wasn’t like last night, either, where he was pushing her, prodding her. This was a request, by him…made for his own needs.
So she kept her hands by her sides, and felt the shudder of anticipation climb higher as he skimmed her dress over her hips and left her standing before him wearing only a thin scrap of panty lace.
His hands dropped away and she saw his fingers close into fists, then open again. His body was rigidly fixed to the spot, tension emanating from him in waves. Then his shoulders shifted, just a fraction, as if he was willing himself to relax, to slow down, to appease his needs at a pace that lent itself to true enjoyment of what was going to happen between them.
His gaze never left her, and there was a strength there, almost tensile, that held them both in place. He finally reached out and traced one blunt fingertip along her collarbone, then down the center of her chest. She shuddered hard and her breathing came in hitches and puffs. But she stood still, squeezing her thighs together and wondering how in the hell the brush of one finger could make her burn like this. Need like this. Want like this.
He drew it beneath the swell of one breast and she held her breath, willing him to cup the full weight in his palm, give her some relief for the sudden need in her nipples. But he merely traced his finger over to the other one.
“Beauty,” he whispered. “Pure beauty.”
She might have swayed, just a little, at the reverence in his tone. She felt unworthy. And at the same time wanted to plead with him to touch her, hold her, taste her, do something—dear God, anything!—to her.
“Please.” The hoarse whisper was hers. And she was past caring that he’d made her beg. She’d do that and more right at the moment, if it meant…
Her breath came out in a long sigh of unadulterated pleasure when he cupped the weight of both breasts in his palms. Then she sucked the air right back in when he flicked his thumbs, oh so lightly, over her now painfully puffy nipples.
“Yes,” she gasped.
“Open your eyes.”
She hadn’t even been aware they’d drifted shut, and opened them without questioning herself over the wisdom of following his every order so obediently. She was doing this as much for her own pleasure as his, and besides which— Oh God, she thought, losing track of all thought when he rubbed his thumbs more slowly over and around her nipples.
She pressed her thighs together, moaned softly.
“Exquisite,” he whispered, as if in awe himself of what he wreaked from her.
She couldn’t help it; she arched, slightly, toward him, a silent plea for more attention. His gaze lasered into hers as he rolled her nipples, making her gasp, making her shudder. Then slowly, exquisitely slowly, he lowered his head. It took every ounce of control she had and some she wasn’t even aware she possessed not to grip his head and hurry him closer, to do what she so badly wanted him to do.
She curled her fingers against damp palms and felt the rush of anticipation build so high it made her dizzy. The first flick of his warm tongue actually made her knees dip, the spear of pleasure was so true and deep. He grasped her hips with his wide, strong hands, steadying her. Then he was at her again with that warm, wet tongue. Rolling, circling, suckling, flicking, until her head thrashed and her nails dug into her palms and moans were ripped from somewhere deep inside her.
And just when she thought she’d simply collapse to the floor, he traced his tongue downward and slid his hands down her thighs as he shifted to kneel in front of her.
Dear God, if she’d all but climaxed with his tongue on her breasts, the idea of… She clenched and almost came just in anticipation. “Lay me down,” she managed to gasp, knowing she’d never withstand such an incredible assault and be responsible for remaining upright. “Must.”
“Shhh,” he replied, then nudged her back a few steps until her spine met the wall. And there, wedged between the dresser and the desk, he drove his tongue inside her and made her come so hard she saw stars.
She sought purchase by slapping her palms flat on the wall, as he ruthlessly drove her up again. Her hands were so damp they slid, as she wanted to. But he wouldn’t let her. Again he teased her quivering nerve endings right to the limit of endurance, then shocked a scream of pleasure out of her when he slipped a finger inside her just as he flicked at her with his tongue, jerking her over the edge.
She trembled, her body shuddering as the aftershocks continued to sizzle inside her, and he pushed his finger deeper, not allowing her to withdraw and recoup. Her body tightened down hard on him and she was moving, sliding, trying to stay upright and at the same time get him deeper and deeper without sinking to the floor in a tumble of quivering need.
“Again,” he said.
She shook her head. She couldn’t. She was almost limp and there was nothing left. He’d wrung her dry. She felt an almost hysterical bubble of laughter surge up her throat. Hardly dry! Still, there was no way—
And then she was over his shoulder, sputtering in surprise at the sudden shift in her pleasure-clouded universe. “What the—!”
And then softness met her back as he tumbled her from his shoulder to the bed. Before she could think to react, to even move, he was pulling off his shirt, shucking his jeans, and she had no words of censure as long as he planned to climb on top of her in the immediate future. She was vaguely aware of heavy things thumping to the floor along with his boots and clothes—likely his cuffs and his gun and God knew what— She stopped thinking altogether just then because he was pulling her ankles, sliding her to the edge of the bed and—
She tried to prop herself up on her elbows, thinking she might sob in frustration if he didn’t just— “Please, Dylan, I—”
“I know.” He pushed her back on the bed, then rolled her over. She heard a short tearing sound and his breath hitch as he slid on a condom. She clenched hard at that, and the distraction cost her, because he gripped her hips, pulling her up and back, then was kneeling between her thighs before she knew what was what.
She pouted, not minding the position except she wanted to feel the weight of him on top of her, to look in his eyes when he was inside her and— She shut down that track, then every other one when he slipped a hand around her thigh and probed with his finger as he slid slowly, and oh so tightly, inside her.
Her long groan of satisfaction was matched by his own. Once he was all the way, deep inside her, he ran his hands up her torso, lifting her off the bed so her back was to his chest. He lifted her arms over her head and draped them back around his neck.
He throbbed inside her, but didn’t move. She’d never felt so full, so…taut.
“Keep…your hands…there,” he ordered.
She was panting, the feel of the hard length of his body behind her, the hard length of him inside, robbing her of speech. Not to mention the vulnerability of having her whole front exposed to his hands.
He tilted her head back against his, traced his tongue down the side of her neck, bit her earlobe at the exact same moment he tweaked her nipples with his fingertips. She gasped, moaned, clenched.
He groaned and moved within her, several strokes, until he got himself under control.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
“Mmm.” All she could manage was a murmur.
Then his hands were toying with her, sliding down her stomach, pressing her back into him as his fingertips crept through the curls, found her, teased her.
“I can’t—” she gasped, right before he proved her wrong. Just as she snapped over the edge—again—he plunged deeper, his fingers on her, holding her against the thick slide of him inside her.
He growled against the damp skin of her neck, pummeling her both with another orgasm and with the incredible feel of him filling her right up.
It was amazing, intense, like nothing she’d ever felt. And yet it wasn’t enough. She wanted the weight of his body on hers…and the weight of his gaze—the latter far more powerful than the former. She refused to let herself think why, just knew she had to have it.
“Dylan,” she gasped. “I want— Let me just— I need you to—”
But it was too late. His body jerked forward, sending her to her hands and knees. He wrapped an arm around her waist and held her tight to him as he thrust again and again. The growl of his release shuddered through every cell of her body.
Liza felt the dampness on her cheeks, knew they were tears, ignored them. Never, not once in her whole life, had anyone taken such masterful control of her body, given her what she hadn’t even known she could have. The downside of always being in control. You can’t test your own limits when you don’t know where the boundaries are.
Dylan had known. Or suspected. Either way, he’d proved his point gloriously. She should be grinning deliriously over such an intense hour of pleasure.
“Mind-numbing,” she murmured as he shifted and slid out of her. “I knew it would be.”
He didn’t say anything, but pressed a kiss in the center of her back before moving off the bed. A moment later she heard the water running in the bathroom. She didn’t move, didn’t even raise her head. Truly remarkable, she thought, and forced subsequent thoughts down the same path. There was absolutely no earthly reason to feel anything less than one hundred percent satisfied. So she concentrated on the bliss…and carefully avoided the niggle of disappointment creeping just below the surface.