All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)(30)

As if echoing my thoughts, he says, “I need to be inside you, and out of my own head.” His voice is rough erotic sandpaper on my nerve endings, and he doesn’t give me time to respond. He turns me to the wall and tears my shirt over my head, one arm wrapping my waist, holding me to him, another hand cupping my breasts, fingers shoving down my bra, pinching my nipples. Sensations spiral through me and already my knees are weak, my body heavy against his. He abandons my breasts and I want to pull him back but already he is shoving down my sweatpants. I help him every way I can, and somehow I am able to toe off one of my shoes but I’m pretty sure he somehow gets the second one off for me.

The instant I’m naked he presses my hands to the wall, his body cradling mine, his thick erection pressed to my backside.

“Why are you still dressed?” I whisper, desperate to feel his skin against mine. But even as I say the words, I know why. Whatever happened on that phone call has him feeling his control has slipped away, and he burns to reclaim it.

His hands slide up and down my waist, sending shivers all through me, and when his hand cups my breasts again, and his other hand explores my backside, I am consumed by arousal.

No. I am consumed by him, and there is no explaining what it is like to be dominated by Chris Merit, to be owned the way he owns me in this moment. I am all woman in his arms, at his mercy in the most erotic of ways. And he is a master of creating a sweet torment.

His palm moves from my backside to curve over my hip and I suck in air at the biting pinch of fingers that continues to torment my nipple. Unable to take it, I dare to cover his hand with mine, holding it to my breasts. “Chris,” I whisper, begging him to do something that I can’t define.

He nips my earlobe, his breath a warm rush on my neck. “You aren’t ready yet,” he replies, as if he knows what I’m asking for, when I don’t know.

His hand on my hip moves, his fingers splaying on my belly, then moving lower, and my sex clenches in anticipation, a moment before his finger just barely teases my swollen clit. I shudder with the light touch that he withdraws, and then gives back, repeating the same torment again and again, each time touching me longer, deeper, until finally, when I think he will fully explore my sex, he withdraws. His palms cup my backside and he begins to massage.

“Oh,” I gasp, knowing this is a spanking in the making. And I want it. I want the way the anticipation and the fire of his palm makes everything fade except the here and now.

But he doesn’t give it to me. Instead he gives my cheeks a rough squeeze and orders, “Don’t move.”

“Chris,” I pant desperately, my elbows softening, my forearms settling on the wall to hold my weight. My only comfort is the sound of him undressing, and the hope he will soon be inside me.

He comes back, flattens his back on the wall and pulls me in front of him, his thick erection at my hip. I reach down and close my hand around him. One of his hands closes over mine, holding it to him while the other reaches behind my neck, dragging my mouth to his, and when he kisses me, it’s so passionate, so deep, that I can feel him everywhere. I moan into his mouth and he makes a low, sexy sound, cupping my backside with both hands and lifting me.

I wrap my arms around his neck, tangling my fingers in his hair. I don’t even remember him moving, but suddenly I’m on top of the counter and flowers are falling over, water pouring to the ground, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is him bringing his shaft to my sex and pushing inside me, driving deep, his arm still around me, my face buried in his shoulder. I tilt forward, and so does he, both of us driving our bodies together; I am not even sure if I’m on the counter anymore or just on him. Or how we start or stop kissing. Or how hard my nails and teeth dig into his back. I just know the burn in my belly and breasts that expands and grows until I am spasming around him, and he’s making these primal, sexy sounds that have me clenching him even harder. His body quakes, his legs tremble with his release and our weight, and somehow it’s over—and we’re on the wet floor and he’s sitting against the counter, me straddling him, my head on his shoulder.

The sound of our breathing fills the air, slowly becoming more rhythmic, our bodies each fully relaxing into the other. I come back to reality with the awareness of his fingers splayed on my back and mine lying on the gorgeous rainbow of colors that is his dragon tattoo. I blink and realize there are several bouquets lying on the floor around me, one of them my pink roses. “So, do you like the pink roses?”

A low, sexy rumble escapes Chris. “Did you just ask me if I like the pink roses while I’m still inside you?”

I lean up, pressing my hands to his chest. “Yes. Do you like the pink roses?”

“Yes, baby. I like the pink roses. And no one but you could take me from where I just was back to pink roses and laughter in sixty seconds flat.”

Knowing I can make him happy is all I need right now. He’ll tell me what upset him when he’s ready. I brush my fingers against the sexy one-day stubble on his jaw. “That’s why I’m about to be your wife.”

He covers my hand with his and rests it over his heart. “Yes, Sara. That is exactly why you are about to be my wife.” He wraps my arms around his neck and shifts. “Hold on tight. We’re getting up.”

I cup his face. “I will always hold on tight. I chose you.”

He curses under his breath. “We’re going to be late to dinner.”