Identity Crisis(50)

Then, without settling onto him, she moved in close, close enough to offer him a long and lingering kiss, while her fingers deftly dispensed with the buttons of his shirt. Then she slid her hands inside, first to pinch his nipples, once again just enough to hurt, just enough to make his cock surge in his jeans, and then she eased her hands down over his ribs, causing him to catch his breath with a deep gasp before she took his mouth again and settled firmly onto his lap, the lace of her panties unable to hold back the thick, wet heat inside. He just had time for a sense of satisfaction at knowing she wasn’t nearly as cool as she pretended to be, and then she began to shift and undulate on his lap, the shape of his erection pressing a tight trough between the swell of her, deeper and deeper with each rocking, with each pressing, until he grabbed her by the hips and held her still, struggling to keep control. ‘Kendra, I’m not about to come in my jeans, so stop teasing me.’

With fingers made useless by arousal he could barely contain, he fumbled in his pocket and would have dropped the condom if she hadn’t caught it.

She giggled softly. ‘Always prepared, are we?’ She took the condom from him and began to unwrap it while he wrestled with his fly.

‘Hope springs eternal,’ he managed, then he hissed a breath between his teeth and lifted his ass from the chair enough for her to worry down his jeans and his boxers until his erection was free. She deftly rolled on the condom, lingering briefly to cup the weight of his fullness. Once he was sheathed and feeling like he would burst, she raised her bottom only enough to pull the gusset of her panties to one side and open herself with two fingers. He caught just a glimpse of her before she settled onto him slowly, torturously, deliciously.

For a long moment, she sat very still, breathing hard, her nipples pearled in an adamant press against the fabric of her dress, her grip like velvet iron around him.

When he could breathe again, when he was sure he wouldn’t humiliate himself beneath her, he grabbed the hem of her dress and lifted it, and she raised her arms so that he could slide it off over her head. In one nearly seamless movement he tossed the dress aside, slid his hands to her breasts, which were braless in the sundress as they had been in the evening gown. Then he took the height of her nipples in turn into his mouth, feeling a delicious sense of triumph in the little whimpers that escaped her throat as he suckled and tugged and nursed, as she held him to her, fingers curled tightly in his hair.

Then she began to shift and move against him, and fuck if he didn’t feel like he’d found his way home. She fit him. She fit him so well. And she made every nerve ending in his body sit up and pay attention. The power of the woman was breathtaking, hidden somewhere beneath Kendra Davis’s quick temper and K. Ryde’s distant professionalism, somewhere in the layers of richness and complexity that left him completely and totally at her mercy. But then he wondered if there’d ever been a time when he hadn’t been at her mercy.

She wrapped her legs around the back of the chair and tightened her grip on him. Her eyelids fluttered as he nibbled at her breasts and her throat and at the striated path down her sternum. The sounds that came from her mouth were wild, animal, hungry. She wasn’t quiet in her lovemaking, and that made him hotter than anything – that someone who could fight like a wild thing and rage like a wild thing could bring all of that heat and anger and fire into the sex act as well. She was a primal force, riding him hard, riding him to the edge of his endurance and backing off just enough to hold him there. And he held on tight. He had no intention of going over that edge until he could take her with him.

He grabbed her thighs and slid onto the floor, nearly upsetting the chair behind them, but she rolled until she was on top of him again, and they were like two wrestlers fighting for supremacy. He figured either way they would both win. He felt the cool tiles on the floor bruising his butt as she settled down onto him hard, her knees drawn up close to his ribs.

He slid a hand over her belly until his palm rested against her tightly trimmed pubic curls and his thumb stroked and circled her clit. The sound that erupted from her throat was dark and rich as he pinched and tweaked and fondled her until she was like silk over pebbles, all dark red and gaping and hungry.

He wasn’t sure either of them could remember how to breathe any longer, and he was pretty sure there would be pulled muscles and bruises, and that something could quite possibly break with the power of her thrusts against his, with the desperation of his rising up to meet her, of his efforts to get still deeper into her.

He rolled once again and pushed up until she was scrunched beneath him, bottom raised, ankles locked high around his ribs. The floor abraded his knees, but it didn’t matter. The pain only registered somewhere remotely, as though it belonged to someone else. He cupped her buttocks and kneaded and caressed as he pushed into her harder and deeper, and she pushed back.