Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(100)

She shoved the baggy sweatpants down over his hips, caressing every perfect, taut dip and swell of the lean contours of his hips and ass. Caressing, slow, stroking, kneading.

She sank to her knees, and took him in her mouth. Quite the enterprise, all things considered. There was a lot of him to take.

No more talking of any kind was possible for some time thereafter. He’d objected to this move the night before, but he wasn’t objecting now, judging from the way his hands shook, fisted into her hair. His whole body vibrated, and so did she, as she finally got it. The whole point of oral sex, which had eluded her thus far.

It was entirely different when her body and soul were on fire, shaken by her lover’s beauty and courage and valor, his toe-curling, irresistible hotness. She couldn’t get enough of his thick, marvelous cock, which had become the most desirable object on earth. She stroked and licked, sliding her tongue, her hands over him, feeling the quick, heavy throb of his heart against her tongue, inhaling his warm man musk mixed with shower soap. She laved his cockhead, licking up tantalizing drops of salty precome. He arched and groaned.

The world narrowed to the rasp of his breath, the wet sounds of her mouth, the crackle of the fire. Her own gasps for breath, between the swirling, the lapping, the stroking. She cupped his heavy balls, curling her fingers around them tenderly.

Energy rushed through her body, bright and cleansing. The feeling rose up from inside, spontaneous as a spring. This impulse to seduce him, minister to him, please him. And master him. He was so strong, but right now, he was helpless to her. It made her giddy.

She could have gone on forever, but he finally pulled her head away, with a ragged, pleading sound. “Don’t make me come,” he said.

She wiped her mouth, stroking the silken hair on his thighs. “Why not? There’s plenty more where that comes from.”

“I want to come inside you,” he said.

“So do that later. We’re not going anywhere tonight, right?”

He gripped her under the arms, hauled her onto her feet with an effortless jerk. “Not later. Now.”

Um, wow. So much for mastering him. Just a teasing echo of his coercive power reverberated through his words. Fiercely controlled.

He cupped her face in his hands, stroking her jaw with his thumbs. The delicate rasp of his callused fingers made her shiver.

“I snatched you from the evil sultan, fair and square.” He wound his fingers into her hair, stretching out her throat for him to nuzzle and kiss. “I’ll decide where to put it, and when. I want you under me, your hair spread out, your body wide open. My cock, buried in your *, shiny with your lube. And I want to look into your eyes when we come.”

She covered his hands with hers. “Take whatever you want. It’s already yours.” She almost lost her nerve, then blurted, “I’m yours.”

Miles blew out an explosive breath. “Mine,” he repeated.

She hoped it wasn’t too much. Too needy, desperate. The strangling kudzu vine. His. Forever, always. Please, let him want it, too.

He kissed her with ferocious intensity. The coldness she’d lamented in the Citadel was gone. She was bathed in heat and light. Charged with energy. They nourished each other with tender, clinging kisses, a tender confusion of helpless giving and greedy taking. She felt like a full-blown flower, sticky and sweet for him, so lost in the kiss, she hadn’t noticed him picking her up until she was bouncing against the couch. The sheet he’d thrown over the couch was chilly. He lifted his mouth away to spread her legs, high and wide. That fierce look in his eyes made her shiver and sigh. He grabbed her hands, and pressed them against her muff. “Touch yourself,” he commanded. “Show me how wet you are.”

She had to close her eyes, against his rapt contemplation of her splayed thighs, but she’d said “his,” and she’d said “anything.”

She reached down, opening herself. His hands stroked her inner thighs, spreading her wider. His breath was hot against her tender inner lips, and he groaned, when he saw how she was gleaming wet. She slid her fingers inside herself. Withdrew them, slick and hot. An offering, a plea. For God’s sake, just do it.

He drew her fingers into his mouth, and the greedy, wet suction of his mouth around her fingers shocked her into a an orgasm.

Astonishing. Long and sweet and lovely and unexpected, melting her into a bright shimmer of emotion. When she finally opened her eyes, he was looming over her, motionless. Gazing at her hungrily.

“Wow,” he whispered. “Fingers. Who knew.”

She tried to speak, but couldn’t. She nodded instead.

“I have to lick you now,” he said. “Or I think I’ll die.”

He seemed to expect an answer, but words were not forthcoming. All she could manage was a breathless murmur, another nod.

“Hold yourself open again,” he said. “I love the way it looks. So pink and shiny and soft.”

She did so, crying out at the intense sensation when he put his mouth to her. His hands clamped over her thighs, holding her wide, and he played her with his tongue, first a light promise, a caress of breath and cheek, oblique and delicate, and then teasing kisses and licks, running his tongue tenderly along every groove and fold, suckling her clit, then plunging deep. Lapping her up.

The last climax had been like a rainstorm, but the next one was a thunderclap. Or a string of thunderclaps, actually, jolting her into a new bright place, soft and shining and unknown.