Oh. That was the only thought she could muster. He was heavy and warm and the hair on his chest rubbed her tender nipples to achingly tight points. The weight of his legs nudged her thighs apart and he settled between her legs to push the hard ridge of his erection against her soft cleft. She made an incoherent noise, lifted against him. She had never before felt so . . . overwhelmed, so completely undone and turned on. He was big, he was dangerous, and he was about to do things to her she had thought she was done with, likely for the rest of her life. Instead, in his hands, she had gone from zero to ready so fast she was dizzy.
Being made love to like a military campaign was a novel experience. He was thorough in his tactics, laying waste to any possible skittishness she might suffer, overwhelming her with pleasure and moving on to new territory before she recovered enough to protest any particular liberty he might be taking. She tried to reciprocate, but he was having none of it. “No touching,” he ordered when she tried to caress his penis through his boxers. “My fuse is too short—”
“Doesn’t feel short to me,” she murmured, earning a chuckle from him.
“Just save that for next time.”
Maybe, she thought, and maybe not. She took her arms from around his neck, stroked them down the muscles in his back, down to his hips where his boxers clung. She slipped her right hand beneath the waistband, drew back enough to murmur, “Why don’t you take these off?”
“Not yet.”
His refusal only made her more determined to get the boxers off him. Swiftly she tugged them down as far as she could reach, baring part of his ass; he reached for her hand and while he was distracted by that she lifted her left leg high around him and slid her foot down his side until she hooked the waistband and could drag it downward.
He gave a smothered laugh. “Fighting dirty, huh? Guess I’ll have to show you what fighting dirty really is.”
In a flash he had her sleep pants jerked down and off. His strength was so effortless she could only imagine what he was like when he was in top shape; even now he put most men to shame. She had a momentary qualm about being nude while he wasn’t, more vulnerable, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it because he slid down between her legs, lifted her thighs over his shoulders, and put his mouth on her.
Oh, God. She arched, her fists knotting the sheet. He definitely knew what he was doing. Oh—God! He licked at her, sucked at her. She was flooded with sensation, pleasure that spiked and ebbed, only to spike again. Her muscles clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily stronger until she was shaking from the force of it, her body drawn bow-taut and aching. Heat seared her from the inside out until she felt molten.
Her climax roared at her like a freight train, fast and relentless. She gave a hoarse cry when it hit, the pleasure so all-encompassing she could only endure and try to ride it out. At her cry he surged upward, covered her, reached down to fit the head of his penis to her opening and pushed inside while the spasms were still wracking her. She cried out again, a guttural sound of both shock and ecstasy because he was big enough to stretch her to the point of pain, and feeling the bulk and heat of him so deep inside her intensified the rhythmic clenching of pleasure. She needed something to hold on to, to keep from spinning away, and the only rock she could find was him so she locked her legs and arms around him and clung through the tempest triggered by his hard, deep thrusts.
Maybe he did last only fifteen seconds; she didn’t know, didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were both caught, riding out the fury together. She was in his arms and he was in hers as he shuddered and bucked in release.
Then it was over and they lay there like storm wreckage, breathing hard and trembling, unable to muster the strength to separate. Their bodies were sweaty from exertion, glued together. That was good, she thought dimly, managing to lift one hand and put it on his side. He’d finally shed those damn boxers, though she couldn’t have said when. Didn’t matter. Now was what mattered.
“Holy shit,” he muttered weakly, started to lever himself off her, and instead collapsed back with a groan. He was so heavy she could barely breathe, and she didn’t care. She turned her face against his neck, inhaling his hot male scent and drawing it deep inside her.
“Stay here a minute.” She loved the feel of him on top of her, inside her. Had sex felt like this before? If it had, she didn’t remember. She couldn’t remember feeling stretched and invaded and possessed; she never would have allowed herself to be possessed. And yet . . . Morgan had done all of that, and she had reveled in it. As intense as the pleasure had been, it had also been mutual, and she had possessed him in turn.
Slowly their heartbeats returned to normal, their lungs stopped heaving in search of oxygen. Her body felt heavy and relaxed, resembling marshmallow more than muscle. He braced himself on his elbows over her, letting her breathe more easily, and nipped at her lower lip. She nipped in return and he threaded his fingers through her hair and began kissing her, slow deep kisses that impossibly ignited a subtle but unmistakable flare.
No way. Even if he was capable, she wasn’t. Maybe in an hour or two. Right now she wanted to sleep, though the need to clean up was becoming more pressing with every second. She might need to change the sheets if she had the strength to care.
He stretched an arm upward and turned on the lamp. She blinked against the flare of light, then smiled at the expression on his face. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes heavy-lidded from pleasure explored and sated, his mouth curved in pure satisfaction. If ever there had been a perfect picture of masculine sexual triumph, he was it. Her own mouth curved in a smile because the triumph was hers; she had put that look on his face, and she didn’t care if he ever realized it because this wasn’t about keeping score, it was about making each other happy.