Wicked Becomes You(90)

The pleasure did not creep up, this time; it crashed onto and through her so forcefully that a split second of fear accompanied it. As she gasped and seized, his fingers replaced his mouth. They pushed slowly and steadily into her, a slight, burning pressure that made her cry out and buck harder. She barely felt his kisses to her thigh; and then his mouth was working its way back up her body again; he was gathering her to him tightly, pulling her against his body as she calmed.

Shame and grudges and complicated designs and anxiety seemed like the languages of a foreign land now; the long, liquid, loose feeling in her had burned away everything but the most elemental and important knowledge. She curled her leg up over his and felt the solid jut of his erection; she rocked against it, and he gasped. Yes. She could make him cry out, too. She reached between them for his trousers; his hands brushed hers, but if he meant to stop her, she gave him no chance. She rolled on top of him and shoved his arms away, laying them out at his sides as he had done to hers. She met his eyes.

“Be still,” she whispered.

He was breathing hard, and a sheen of sweat showed on his forehead. But as he met her eyes, the barest whisper of a smile moved his lips. “Oui, mademoiselle.”

She unfastened his trousers and bared him completely. His hips were lean, his musculature cut as though by a blade. He looked like one of those Greek statues in the British Museum that she had always made such a show of ignoring—only he was hotter, and larger, and his eyes were watching her. She reached out to touch the line that started at his hip bone, a faint groove where the muscles of his upper and lower body met, and he made a faint sound, between a gasp and a hiss. She watched her finger trace the line toward his manhood. Oh, really, Gwen. Toward his cock, which was straight and large and far thicker than she had expected, and also . . . well, she supposed she had thought it would look like white marble. Her hand paused.

His breathing paused.

She cupped her hand around it and closed her fingers.

Soft, she thought with wonder. Soft but so hard, beneath. She bent to kiss it.

A hoarse oath came from him. He caught her beneath the arms and pulled her up. “Later,” he said breathlessly when she started to ask where she’d erred. A hard kiss silenced her. He rolled her onto her back and came on top of her. Oh, she thought, a silent and formless revelation that glittered through her like fireworks. He felt right atop her. He felt like he was hers. He was kissing her now with intention, with an enthusiasm so fierce and focused that it carried an edge of desperation, and this, too, seemed like a miracle—that her touch seemed as necessary to him as his did to her.

His hunger was contagious. It kindled hers again as well. She wrapped her arms around him and lifted her legs. Desire built low in her belly, a pressure that wanted puncturing, release. He broke away to reach down her body again, to touch her quim, but the pleasure he’d given her that way now seemed like a delay. She took his hand and brought it to her mouth, looking into his eyes as she kissed his palm as he’d done to hers. Then she lifted her hips against him, angling so his cock brushed against the place he’d wanted to touch.

He turned his hand in hers, lifting hers to his lips and taking her index finger into his mouth. Below, the head of his cock found her entrance. As he sucked her finger into his mouth, he gave a slow, smooth push below. The force of his exhalation washed down her hand, her forearm.

He pushed again, harder this time, and she caught her breath. The premonition of pain was suddenly upon her.

The sound made him go still. He took a deep breath. Then another.

She pulled her hand free of his mouth. If he was struggling with notions of honor, she had no tolerance for it. She was wicked. She grabbed his arse, so smooth and hard, and dug in her nails as she lifted her hips again.

His hand speared through her hair and tightened. “Be still,” he said through his teeth.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

“God save you if you think I would,” he said hoarsely. “Just a . . . moment.”

She waited, breathing hard. A shudder moved through him. And then he pushed again

She bit her lip. No, this definitely would not be comfortable.

“Gwen,” he murmured. He kissed her, harshly, his fingers tightening in her hair to a shade short of painful, and pushed again.

She inhaled in startlement.

He was inside her.

It did not hurt so much after all.

His lips molded hers as he settled into a slow, rocking movement. She kissed him back, too astonished to do much more, too rattled by this bizarre sensation, his tongue inside her mouth and his, yes, his cock inside her down below. The soreness was subsiding. It felt very queer; her fingers twitched atop his back like startled birds as new sensations registered, the slide of his abdomen across hers, the jab of his hip bones into her stomach. This was more complicated than what had come before; it was very athletic, for him. She had no idea what to do. Was she meant to move? Would he mind if she simply lay here?