Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(30)

“Oh, come on!”

“Fair’s fair,” he said. “No compromise. Take me or leave me.”

She squeezed his hot, pulsing rod, milking it. “I’ll take you.”

“Yeah?” He covered her hands with his around his cock. “I’m getting a weird feeling. I’ve been letting my d was the thinking, but even with a nonfunctioning brain, I feel like you’re messing with me.”

“No.” Panic twisted in her middle. “No, I’m not. Really.”

“Oh, I’ll still do it,” he assured her. “I want it. But I’ll tell you right now. If you try to make me feel bad afterward for having done it, it will piss me off like you would not believe.”

“I won’t,” she assured him.

“Yeah? Good. If you have any doubts, this is your chance to put your clothes on and leave.”

She grabbed his hand, pulling until he sank to his knees again. “No doubts,” she said, pulling his hand between her legs. “Feel me.”

His fingers dipped into the slick, hot moisture that bathed her *. Air hissed sharply out of his mouth.

He shoved her down onto the blanket. The lumpy cushions gave, aged springs creaking, and she shuddered with pleasure as he teased her *, sliding his fingers inside while his thumb sought out her clit.

He diddled her, dragging kisses up her belly that left a trail of wildly overstimulated flesh in their wake. When he reached her breasts, heat bloomed, unfolding from inside her chest and swelling helplessly to meet the call of his hot mouth. She made a shocked sound.

He lifted his head. “What? Don’t tell me your tits are taboo, too.”

The sour note in his voice made her giggle. “No.”

“Thank God.” He bent his head to her breasts again.

She usually got bored with foreplay, though she always awarded a guy points for the effort. But this was pleasure on a whole new scale.

She shook, straining, as each slow thrust caressed her sweet spots. His mouth coaxed her into a sparkling froth of sensation, until she was writhing, hips jerking, chest heaving against his hot mouth. “Enough,” she gasped out. “Please . . . please. I want you.”

“Give me one, first,” he said.

She blinked in the dark, utterly lost. “Huh? Give you what?”

“Come for me. Before we do it.”

She didn’t have enough air in her lungs to laugh. Like orgasms were so easy to come by. “I can’t do that on command,” she explained. “It’s not that easy for me to come, but I’m having a really great time, and you’re doing everything right, so don’t take it personally if I can’t—”

“Shhh.” He pressed his fingers to her lips. “It’ll be OK. Just stop fighting. You’re small. You need to relax. Trust me.”

Trust him. Hah. She didn’t even know what it would feel like to trust him, or anyone. He kept doing his thing, and the pleasure warped out of control, swelling into something huge, scary, something lethal—

It hit her, slamming her, with emotion, sensation, who the hell knew. It had no name, no precedent. It knocked her out.

She floated back after a while, limp and disoriented. Amazed she was still there at all. Still alive. Still herself.

Bruno was crouched on the floor, digging in the pocket of his jacket. A crinkle, the rip of foil. Good thing he was being responsible. She herself had forgotten all about that. Shocking. Stupid of her.

Bruno stretched her out on the couch. She shivered, boneless and soft. So vulnerable. Like a virgin on a sacrificial altar. He spread her legs wide, poised himself between them.

He started slowly, pting her slit with the head of his cock. The up-and-down swipe made her writhe with ticklish delight, wiggling to take more of him. He leaned back. Goddamn tease. She arched her back, reaching to grab his ass, pull him in where he belonged.

His white teeth flashed, and he swirled himself, lodging the head of his cock inside her, slowing down at the resistance he found there. Rocking, pushing. She arched, panting with eagerness. Wow, he was hard, blunt. But she was ready. Primed to screaming.

His weight bore down, his phallus driving deep, in a tight, delicious shove. She grabbed as much of his upper arms as she could wrap her fingers around and pressed back, arching her back, pulsing her hips against him greedily. Their eyes locked. His face was tense, all teasing gone. A muscle pulsing in his locked jaw.

He lowered himself, covering her body with his heat, his weight. The blanket he’d draped over the back of the couch fell down, covering his shoulders and the back of his head, blocking out what light there was. She was swaddled in a tight, breathless cocoon, with this big, hard, hot man all over her. Miles inside her.

He stared into her eyes and began to move. It blazed out of him, as clearly as words. Each lunge into her body said mine, mine, mine.

She hadn’t signed up to be his, or anyone’s, but it was happening anyway. It was too much. It was killing her, how good it was. Each stroke a hot, liquid lick of melting pleasure.

She started to fight again, just to make it back off enough so she could find her separate self again, but it was like fighting a mountain. His weight pinned her against the squishy couch. His cock pumped, slick and deep into the well of delicious sensation between her legs, twisting and swirling, finding so many madly lit-up sweet spots inside her and stroking over them, and over them, ah, God, again . . .