“I’ve got you, Veronica,” I tell her as I reach beneath her and flip her over, making sure as I do that it’s the belt that twists and not her wrists. “I’ve got you, baby.”
Then I’m throwing her legs over my shoulders, lifting her hips off the bed and burying my face in her soft, slick pussy. Thrusting my tongue over her clit, along her slit, inside her sex again and again and again until she calls my name as her body clamps down around me in her third orgasm of the night.
And still I’m not done, still it’s not enough. I use my hands and mouth and body to take her higher. To drive her to the edge over and over again until she’s sobbing and pleading and nearly incoherent with the need to get off one more time. Only then, when she’s desperate, when she’s chanting my name like a mantra—like a prayer—do I line myself up and plunge into the wet, welcoming depths of her.
She comes instantly, her body milking mine with a thousand powerful contractions that seem to go on forever. I’m close, so close, but I’m not ready to follow her over. Not yet, when the pleasure is consuming me, pulling me under. Not yet, when the darkness calls to me like a siren.
Her legs are still over my shoulders and I turn my head, bite softly at the inside of her knee before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She rocks her head back and forth on the bed as even more color floods her cheeks and in that moment—with her pink cheeks and kiss-swollen lips and fucked out eyes—she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I open my mouth to tell her so, but something tells me that doing so will ruin everything. And so I bite my tongue, hold the words back, and fuck her like she’s the most beautiful, most important woman in the world.
Chapter 14
He’s trying to kill me.
There’s no other explanation for what Ian is doing, no other reason for the way he’s pushing his body, pushing mine, to the brink. He’s close. I know he’s close—I can see it in the darkness of his eyes, hear it in the harsh wildness of his breaths, feel it in the urgency of his hips as they slam against mine over and over again. And still he fucks me. Still he refuses to just let go and come.
I should be exhausted, should be completely fucked out after the four orgasms he’s already given me, especially considering the day I’ve had—and the fact that this is only the second time in my life that a man has ever made me feel like this.
But I’m not fucked out, not yet. I’ve only just come and still I can feel my body responding to his, still I can feel the tension building deep inside of me yet again. I don’t know how this is happening—don’t know why it’s Ian Sharpe of all people who can make me feel like this—and right now? I don’t care. All that matters is that he keeps doing it for just a little bit longer.
Because as long as he’s fucking me, as long as he’s turning me inside out, then I’m not thinking about what happened in my bathroom tonight. I’m not thinking about Belladonna or my mother’s concerns or the fact that I’m terrified by my strange memory lapse from earlier.
All I’m thinking about is Ian and the pleasure he sends crashing along my every nerve ending, the pleasure he uses to turn my whole body to flame.
Right now, one of his hands is around my ankle, holding my leg up while the other is on my breast, his fingers tweaking my nipple hard enough to hurt. It’s nowhere near hard enough to have me asking him to stop though, not when every deliberate twinge of pain brings with it an avalanche of pleasure.
I moan at the sensation, arching my back to press even closer to him. To get even more from him than he’s already given. He groans in response, flicks a fingernail back and forth across my nipple. It feels good, too good. I’d wanted to hold on for a little while this time, to watch his face as my body—as I—make him come. But with every thrust, every flick, every touch of him against me, I get closer to the edge and I know if I don’t do something soon, he’s going to send me soaring alone again.
Instinctively, I buck my hips, tighten around him. He responds with a low snarl and a slap on the side of my hip that has pleasure—crazy, overwhelming, insane—streaking along my every nerve ending. My head is thrashing back and forth on the pillow now, words I can barely comprehend falling from my lips and I’m begging for more, pleading with him to take me up and over. It’s disconcerting, terrifying even, considering I’ve built my entire adult life on the premise that I don’t beg anyone for anything. Ever.