Watching me, he slides his hand along my throat, my collarbone, flicks open my bra, and easily discards it. “You’re so responsive when I touch you, it pushes me over the edge to watch you fall apart.” He reaches to my waistband and flicks open my skirt; then he eases it down my legs. He is in no apparent hurry, but I am. I’m in such a hurry to see him naked that I kick off my skirt and reach out like a frantic nymphomaniac, my fingers trembling as I unzip his slacks.
“Get naked, get naked, Saint,” I beg on a cotton-like breath.
When his super-warm, smooth skin connects with mine, I’m in heaven and in purgatory, running my hands down his back, gripping his hard ass to pull him above me. He trails his tongue, hot and wet, across my nipple. I moan. His smell enthralls me, and the hint of his taste lingers on my lips. If that isn’t the most delicious form of torture, I don’t know what is.
He ducks his head and slides his tongue over my other nipple, and I shudder and part my legs when he teases two fingers across my folds, and I’m saying, “Please.” He teases the strong tip of his middle finger inside but pulls it out immediately. Fierce desire pools between my thighs as I lift my hips and, aching, try to follow his thumb’s retreat. He keeps me there, where he wants me. Beneath him, helpless and quivering. He nips my lower lip, pulling it away from the top. Achingly gently.
I mew softly and he shifts above me so that his hard body is aligned with mine. God help me, he owns me. “Sin . . . Sin . . .” My thoughts scatter as he dips his tongue sinuously into my ear. This man will turn the entire world into a sinner.
He looks at my reddened nipples. I groan when he sweeps down to lave and taste them as he caresses my sex with smooth, knowing fingers. First brushing on the outside. His middle finger across the length. The pad of his thumb, in little circles; then his thumb rubs me and his middle finger eases inside me and I’m undone.
I pull his face down to me, trembling with desire as I kiss him, angling my head and sucking his tongue hard. He groans when I let him slide up and down between my legs. I’m so hungry that if he enters me, I’m going to get there before he does. But he’s savoring what he’s doing to me, and he seems to want to make it last. The head of his cock massages the outside of my sex.
He’s beautiful and untamed and powerful and I want him to come inside me. But I know it would be reckless, and so I pant and watch him roll on a condom and look at me, his chest jerking with his deep breaths.
We hold gazes as I part my legs and he rubs against me again. He spreads out over me again. In one swift move, he curls one of my legs around his hip, opening me, and he presses in. I groan and sink my nails into his muscles. He watches my face as he starts to penetrate me. His body shudders, and my breath leaves me when he draws out his cock and then puts it inside me, all wet from me, and so hard. I can’t think or speak, I just take him, take his mouth, take the thrill of the way his eyes watch me. My every undulation, my every gasp, every whimper of helpless abandon.
He reaches between us and rubs the pad of his thumb just a bit over my clit, and he watches, breathing hard, with the merest tiny circular rub of his thumb while he presses his cock in as deep as he wants, ready to enjoy the tightening and loosening ripples in my body.
An orgasm. Fierce and wild. It sweeps through me like a wildfire, no corner of my body untouched. Saint pins my hips down and rides me through it, keeping my orgasm going with the most delicious thrusts of my life as I twist around, my mouth seeking his. He gives me a crushing kiss, and I can feel when he reaches that point, that magical point, because the energy seems to coil in his body, which grows tauter and tauter with each thrust.
I’m still enjoying the aftershocks when his body tightens and I feel the jerks of his cock as he jets off inside me. He grabs me by the cheeks, holding my face as he slows his rhythm. We share a slow but deeply passionate kiss as our bodies loosen.
“Wow,” I say, panting.
“Yeah,” he says. A soft laugh follows, and it comes with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. He looks pleased with my sincerity. Or maybe just . . . with sex with me.
He shifts so he’s facing the ceiling and I’m draped to his side, his arm holding me to him, the other folded under his head, his chest heaving. He looks down and brushes a tendril of wet hair from my forehead. “I’m nearly about ready to go at it again. You?”
I can’t breathe, but who needs air? “Me too.”
What am I doing? What am I doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING, RACHEL?
“One more time before I leave,” I say, rolling over on top of him. And, oh god, he’s so good, I’d keep him if I could.
One sex marathon with multiple orgasms later . . .
“Why didn’t you tell your friends about me?” Malcolm asks.
I hesitate as I dress.
His expression is not annoyed, but I can’t say that he looks happy either. He looks a bit closed off, his lids heavy from his last orgasm, his gaze shuttered.
“Same reason I didn’t want your friends to know.”
“What reason?” he asks.
“We were just fooling around. It means nothing.” I zip my skirt and then stand there, looking at him. “You’re mad?”
“I’m curious.”