Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(18)

He sank deep, slowly. No cramps met the intrusion and she stroked his neck and his hair, sighed her pleasure. He dropped low, resting his forehead against hers and merely holding there for a time, that wild body tame and patient. She let her hands wander his chest and ribs to settle on his hips, and she tugged.

He gave her his cock in smooth, steady strokes, silent at first, until a soft shudder of a moan filled the air between them. She shivered, melting, * welcoming him deep.

As he found a pace she studied his face, the tendons in his neck, the shapes of his chest and arms, a rush of startling clarity making it feel as though they were standing in the broad light of day. This is a man who would absolutely defend and protect my child. The truth of that thought struck her in a deep, visceral place, vibrating on a wholly animal wavelength.

She changed beneath him, hands gripping him tight, thighs hugging his hips, urging him to go faster, deeper, to make it rougher. Not so much as a twinge this time.

“Feel okay?” he whispered.

“I need you.”

“You get me.”

“Harder.”

“How hard?”

“Ninety percent.” They spoke of his capacity for harshness in percentages sometimes, a hundred equaling the way he got when they role-played. Tonight she wanted his strength and aggression, but no playacting. Brash possession, and a chance to wallow in it as his lover, not his victim.

He pressed hard into her, forcing her legs wide and making her feel the obscene weight of his body. Something lit up inside her, feeling his power. She hadn’t had a chance to wonder how the pregnancy might change his attraction to her, if he’d still be comfortable being this way, being rough. She’d hate to feel as though she couldn’t be what he needed, couldn’t grant his darkest wishes. It deepened that ravenous sensation inside her, curled her fingers into claws against his skin and had her breath coming in gruff gasps.

She raked her nails up and down his back. “You feel so good.”

“You like me deep?”

“Yeah.”

“Need it faster? Slower?”

“Faster.”

He gave her that, their bodies meeting with sharp smacks. “Touch yourself.”

“Not yet. I want to go crazy first.” A couple times she’d come from nothing more than the f*cking, but nearly always she needed her clit touched. Until then, the thrust of his cock was an exquisite tease and she lost herself in the friction, the slide and thrust, the impact of his hips. More even than the physical stimulation, his voice was setting her on fire. His exhalations were rhythmic grunts, soon lengthening to moans.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, mouth right at his ear.

“Take my cock, girl.”

Girl. Not honey, now. He was slipping deeper into his kink, and she welcomed the shift.

“Get on top,” he ordered.

He moved to sit and she straddled him, feeling his guiding fist as her sex sought his cock then claimed it, deep.

“Yeah. Ride me.”

She sat up and leaned back, adjusting until she had the right angle. She took him smooth and slow, feeling magnetic with those blue eyes watching every undulation. All that wildness she objectified in him, it was coursing through her now. She felt powerful and ferocious, owning this man, and as not a single drop of wine had been drunk, she couldn’t blame her brazenness on alcohol. This was something even stronger, something mammalian and ancient and hot as sin.

He looked hypnotized, lost in the spell her body was casting. Her excitement mounted, gathering deep and low against the slick friction. She’d only come a couple of times this way, without touching her clit, and it had turned her inside-out.

“Lay back.”

He did and she dropped to her palms, seeking the right pressure, chasing that hot, angry hum in her cunt. Her eyes roamed his skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his clenched abdomen, the knitting of muscle between his pecs and along his ribs. All at once her hips were driving, this sex feeling like an out-of-body experience.

His gaze was electric, nailed between them. “Yeah, use that dick. Fuck me.”

She buried her face against his neck. “You feel so good.”

“Love the way you f*ck me, honey.”

Honey. So close. “Say my name.”

“Laurel.”

Pleasure burst open inside her. “Yeah.”

“You gonna come on me?”

She nodded, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed to his throat. She tried to say yes, to say his name back, to say anything, but all that came was a mewling, frightened yelp of a moan, as all at once she was bearing down on release.

“Yeah, come on my dick. Use me, Laurel.”

She did. He was everything—a hard cock, a gorgeous body, the man who shocked and comforted and irked and supported her, all of it feeling so starkly plain, sweet and bestial, at once a Valentine and pornography. The pleasure spiked, leveled, spiked, leveled, and she chased the orgasm so hard she thought her hips might seize up, but then— “Oh God. Oh God.”

“Come on, honey. Do it.”

She already was. A shrieking, shuddering possession of a climax, like the kind she got through her clit, only tripled. Time slipped away as she rode the sensations—more a bucking bronco than a soothing ocean tide—and she didn’t know what she said, what he said in return. She was aware only of their bodies and, in time, the feel of his arm in her grip, and the sight of his skin beneath her raking nails. She pulled her hand back, half expecting blood. But no, merely marks.