When she squirmed, Harry’s rigid flesh rubbing against her, her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head with the exquisite pleasure the sensation wrought.
Harry’s groan came out on a gasp as he tried to process what was happening to him in words. “I feel totally out of goddamn control. I know it. I can feel it. But it’s almost like I don’t give a damn. Jesus, every nerve I own is on fire right now. What if I hurt you? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you, Mara.”
Mara’s breathing was ragged when he thumbed her nipple through her shirt, drawing it to a tight peak, but he pulled his hand away as if she’d bitten him. “I can handle it. Promise.”
His lips took a tentative nip at her neck and her spine began to melt. Yet, he planted his hands flat on either side of her against the wall. “I don’t know if I can,” he growled, the scrape of his nails against the wall grating in her ears.
“Should we see?” Mara clung to his waist, her feet hooked at the ankles, her arms tight around his neck. She was baiting him, encouraging him, and she was going to do it without regrets.
“I can’t promise flowers and candy the first round.”
“I have allergies. Not a huge fan of sweets.”
His body trembled against her, rock-hard, rippling, fighting for control. Yet, still he managed to say, “Have you tried that new allergy medicine everyone’s been talking about?”
“Do you care?”
His chest continued to rise and fall, the friction of it delicious, teasing her nipples through her shirt until it was an all-out effort not to scream her pleasure. Harry shook his head and huffed out, “Not even a little. Not right now. Promise I’ll care later, though. During the flowers and candy stage.”
“You do this in stages?” she squeaked.
He rolled his head on his neck, sucking in air before responding. “I want to do this in one fell swoop, but then I’d be an inconsiderate lover.”
Need clawed at her gut, yet she managed, “Inconsiderate is a matter of opinion.”
“Oh, no. Not when it comes to a woman.”
“Sexist.”
“Truth-ist.”
Impatience, longing, need made her curl her fingers into his hair and clench a fistful of it. “That’s not a word, Harry.”
“I’m running out of them at this point.”
“Then don’t say any more of them.” Please.
“You’re sure?” he ground out, his powerful body, fit and hard from working out, quaked.
She swallowed hard. “That I don’t want you to talk anymore?”
“No. That you’ll be able to handle what I think is going to happen.”
“I got this.”
Those words triggered his response—forceful and teetering on the edge of uncontrollable.
Harry’s hands went to the front of her shirt where he placed his fingers between her breasts and tore the flimsy material, dragging it down and pushing it away. The filmy fabric ripped easily, turning her on almost as much as the brush of his fingers on her overheated skin.
Next, he popped the clasp on the front of her bra, groaning his appreciation when she ripped open the front of his flannel shirt, too, driving her hands inside, placing her fingertips on his flesh, pinching his nipples.
And it was exquisite madness, the hard planes, the sprinkling of hair between his pecs, the crash of his heart against her palm. She grabbed a fistful of his skin, kneading it, driving her hips against his, writhing with so much desperate need it was almost more than she thought she could stand. His skin was like rough satin, smooth, overheated from the need to mate. Mara wanted to burrow inside him, consume him until they had no beginning and no end.
Harry’s lips went to her neck again, licking the sensitive flesh, nipping at it, creating wave after wave of heat between her thighs. And then he was shoving her legs from around his waist, tearing at the button of her jeans before giving up and simply removing them with a hard yank.
The rip of denim, her nipples scraping against his chest, his sinfully thick groan in her ear when he first touched his finger to her swollen flesh, made her howl her pleasure. She clung to his neck when he began to move toward her bedroom, kicking her refinished coffee table out of his way as he went.
He stopped momentarily at the entry to her bedroom, scanning the room for her bed with, as he’d dubbed jokingly, a million unnecessary and much too impractical pillows on it. “Condoms,” he rasped, running his hands up and down her spine, along the curve of her hip, whispering over the tops of her thighs.
“We don’t need them now. My cycle doesn’t begin until January or February. It’s only November,” she somehow managed to force the words out against his neck.