Sleeping With Her Enemy(54)

She had just closed her eyes, the better to revel in the delicious hardness of him, to marvel over how beautiful and powerful she felt at this moment, when his hands hitched under her armpits and he tossed her back on the bed. “I can’t allow that to continue.” When she mock-pouted, he climbed on top of her and whispered in her ear, “If you keep doing that, I won’t be able to deliver what was advertised.” A thrill shot through her, but she didn’t know if it was from his wicked words or from his hand, which had begun roaming through the curls between her legs. Propping himself above her with one elbow, his other hand and his mouth worked for a minute in torturous synchronicity, drawing circles around her clit and one nipple respectively.

“Oh my God,” she moaned, sparing a thought for whether she should be embarrassed at how wet she was. But when he entered her with a finger, she abandoned any self-consciousness, rocking her hips in time with the thrusting rhythm he was establishing with his finger. “What was advertised?” she gasped, with her last rational thought.

“Fucking,” he said without hesitation. Never letting up with his hand, he moved his head to nestle in her neck and dropped a kiss on her collarbone before whispering, “Everything okay?”

Tears gathered behind her eyes because the answer was yes. Everything was okay. There was no panic, no uncertainty, no overthinking. Just this galloping need that felt like it was going to run her off a cliff. She swallowed hard. Maybe another reason for this rush of emotion was that he was so thoughtful as to pause and check on her. Whatever image Dax liked to project, he was a good man. So she grabbed his head, one hand on either cheek, and brought him up so they were eye to eye. Then she smiled and said, simply, “Yes.”

The hand between her legs stilled as he smiled back. A genuine one, not one of his wicked grins, though she liked those, too. “I’m trying to go slow,” he breathed, dropping his forehead to touch hers.

“Why?” She arched her hips against his hand, trying to incite him to get back to doing those wonderful, terrible things to her.

He kissed her, on the lips, and then on the forehead. “It seems the polite thing to do.”

No. She didn’t want that. “I don’t think polite is in the spirit of what you said we were going to do.”

His eyes darkened. “Remind me again what I said we were going to do?” When she didn’t answer right away, he levered himself fully off her, kneeling between her legs on the bed and not touching her. She wanted to scream at the injustice of the lost sensation. “Remind me,” he commanded. “I want to hear you say it.”

He looked like a god, some kind of water god on land, towering over her with his chiseled chest and his dark presence.

“Fucking,” she said, without hesitation.

Maybe he was a god because the speed with which he found and donned a condom suggested some sort of supernatural power. Then he was—“Oh!” she cried—inside her. Dax was finally inside her. Once he was fully seated, filling her completely, he stilled and pressed the base of his palm against her mound.

“You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.” He ground his hips, and though it should have been impossible, seemed to work himself even deeper inside her.

She let loose a low moan. It had been involuntary. “I think I do know.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t.” But happily, he didn’t seem inclined to press the matter because he pulled almost all the way out of her. Even though logically, she knew he was going to come back, the loss prompted her to cry out and wrap her arms and legs around him, as if she could prevent him from fleeing. It should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t.

He thrust into her again, increasing the pressure with his palm, and she gasped.

Again, but this time he replaced the meat of his palm with his thumb and two fingers and rolled her clit between them. He thrust again, a little harder this time. And again, harder. She wanted to scream, from both the gutting pleasure and the extreme frustration of feeling like she kept rushing toward a cliff, but never reached the edge.

“Is this too hard?” he rasped.

She shook her head vigorously, unable to form the words but needing him to know that he shouldn’t stop. He should never stop.

Another thrust, punctuated by the slap of his balls against her. “You like it like this?” He sounded like he was taunting her.

“Yes,” she gasped. He was taunting her, hammering into her, never letting up for one moment on the relentless rhythm of both his hips and his fingers. “Just like this.”

“Like what?” He stopped then. The bastard stopped, and she cried out her displeasure, pulling knees up to her sides and trying to arch her hips up to get him going again. “Tell me how you like it.”