The Russian's Acquistion(62)
“Finally,” he hissed, shaking with need.
She paused and he realized he’d spoken in Russian. She kept going and he kicked out of the jeans, stepping so his socked feet were braced, fingers flexing with desire to catch her up to him and plunder her mouth.
She lowered herself to her knees, hands cool and soft on his calves as she removed his socks. Did she know she was driving him to the absolute edge of reason?
He glared down to see her staying on her knees, gaze coming to rest on his shorts, lips pressed into a line of uncertain study. As she reached out and carefully eased the elastic over him, his vision blurred. He stepped out of his shorts and didn’t know if he’d be able to stay on his feet. He was a conqueror by nature and necessity, but at this second he was a slave. A prisoner to each of her incremental movements.
Despite knowing what she was about to do, he was staggered by the first touch of her hands, swelling and hardening to unbearable proportions, filling her palms. Words of protest and abject begging threatened to burst from him, but she was stealing every last thought from him, closing her mouth upon him with untutored, scandalously sexy ardor.
A ragged groan erupted from him. His passion nearly exploded. He wasn’t going to last and he wanted, needed, to be inside her.
With the very last shreds of his control, he tangled his fingers in the golden silk that brushed her cheeks. It killed him to force her to release him, but he had nothing left. He was about to shock or scare her and he had to have her with him when the last of his restraint evaporated. He wanted to feel each ripple of her orgasm when he came and know she was as insanely lost to pleasure as he was.
“You didn’t like it?” she asked anxiously as he drew her to her feet.
“If you don’t get a condom on me soon, you’re going to have to start arousing me all over again.” He couldn’t believe the quiet, husked voice was his own. He sounded tender. He even felt a deep, complex stirring inside himself. To say, “I want you” didn’t come near to encompassing the expansive need in him.
The phrase still caused her blue eyes to glitter with jubilation. That naked look nearly made him use the desk right there and then.
He cupped her head so he could swoop his mouth onto hers and did everything in his power to convey his desire, to bestow as much pleasure as he could. Her sweet moan, the plaster of her lithe body into his, was his reward.
Swinging her into a cradle against his chest, he made the bedroom in record time, barely able to open the drawer for a condom and get it on without erupting. He removed her yoga pants and the panties beneath with a rending of delicate lace while she pushed off her top, her breasts hot and damp with sweat as he pressed himself over her, crushing her onto the bed beneath him. Using his knees to push her thighs apart, he couldn’t resist testing her arousal, finding her so wet and ready she bucked at the first touch of his fingers.
In one triumphant thrust, he filled her. A primal tingling raced down his spine as he made her his, only his, again and again and again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALEKSY TOLD HIMSELF he was allowing the relationship to continue, and deepen, for Clair’s sake. Of all the men she’d come across in her life, she found him to be sexually compatible, so he was putting himself at her service. It would be unkind to deprive her of an opportunity to explore her sensual nature. At least he knew she was unique and treated her accordingly. Some might call it self-servicing, but he disagreed. No one had ever gone out of their way to make her happy. She deserved to be spoiled in every way, so he was doing it.