Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(73)

“Here?”

I mew, rocking against his cock and his finger, wordlessly begging.

He exhales a slow, ragged breath. His brows draw together. “Are you sure?”

I can see exactly how much he wants this, which makes his hesitation all the more sweet. I drop my bound arms around his shoulders and give him a long, passionate kiss.

“Yes,” I whisper, nipping his full lower lip. Then I roll onto my stomach, spread my legs, arch my back and glance at him over my shoulder. “I’m sure.”

He looks down at me, presenting myself for his eyes to feast on. His lips part. His nostrils flare. A sharp tremor runs through him. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, his voice throbbing with desire.

With simple honesty, I say, “I want you to come inside me. Like this.” When he hesitates, his body radiating ambivalence, I add, “Soon.”

His eyes flash to mine. With my demand so clearly articulated, Connor can’t find another reason to delay.

He runs his hand up my back, tangles his fingers into my hair. He presses himself against me for a moment, inhaling against my skin, letting me feel all his jumbled emotions through the wild pounding of his heart. Then he releases my hair, drags his hands down my ribs and over my waist, and with his hands flat on the small of my back, presses me against the mattress.

“Open your legs wider,” he says, his tone full of command. My arms over my head and my face pressed to the blanket, I close my eyes and do as he asks.

He slaps my ass. Surprised, I yelp and jerk.

He smooths his hands over the sting, softly stroking, crooning words of praise. Then he slaps me again even harder on the other cheek, making me moan. After eight more sharp slaps alternating back and forth from left to right cheek, he whispers, “So f*cking wet. Look at you. All down your thighs.”

I can’t help myself. I rock my hips wantonly, canting my ass in the air, desperate to have him inside me.

“God, Tabby. You’re so—” His voice breaks.

“Hurry,” I whisper, looking up at him. “Connor. Please, hurry.”

His hand trembles when he curls it around my hip. His knees nudge my thighs farther apart. Then I feel his hardness, his insistent heat, sliding gently up and down over my tight, puckered bud. He licks his fingers, wets the head of his cock, gently moistens me, then positions himself.

With the head of his cock fisted in his hand, Connor slowly presses forward and enters me.

I shudder, groan, grip the blanket. When he freezes, I whisper, “Don’t stop.”

His hand tightens around my hip. He flexes his pelvis, sliding deeper inside me. With his other hand, he reaches around and softly strokes my pulsing clit.

I buck back sharply, taking him to the hilt.

The moan that breaks from his chest is loud, broken, totally undone.

I love that sound.

The thought rips through my mind as pleasure rips through my body. I’m bound, and he’s enormous, but the control is all mine. And all I want is to force that helpless sound from him again. I tilt my hips and find a rhythm, fast and hard, because we’re both so close and I can’t hold on much longer.

With every flex of my hips, he whispers, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” an incoherent chant of bliss. His strokes on my clit get rougher, faster, pinching and sliding. I cry out, losing it.

He grabs both my hips and drives into me so hard, I feel bent in two. Then he bellows and comes, holding me against him as he empties himself in wild, jerking pulses that shake the whole bed.

So good. So good. So f*cking good.

I listen to him roar in pleasure as my own pleasure crests over me, erasing all other thoughts. My cries are torn out of me, muffled by the blanket I’m biting down on.

Connor slows. His grip on my hips gentles. He lowers himself on top of me, taking us both down to the bed, covering me with his strength and heat, panting into my ear.

We’re quiet for a while, just letting our breathing slow. I feel boneless and overwhelmed, the intensity of what just happened eclipsing anything I might say.

He kisses me on the shoulder, brushes my hair off my face, kisses me on the neck. “Tell me you’re not hurting,” he rasps.

I whisper, “I’m good. Better than good.”

He reaches above me, unties the belt from my wrists, throws it away. He massages my wrists and arms, and then very carefully eases out of me.

We both softly moan.

He rolls to his side, curling me up against him, the length of our bodies pressed together. He wraps his big arms around me. They’re shaking.

“That was…”

“Intense,” I whisper. “I know. I wish we could do it every night for the rest of our lives.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I freeze in horror.

Dear God. The man just f*cked the truth right out of me.





Twenty-Six





Understanding I’m utterly dismayed about what just left my lips, Connor clears his throat.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Good.”

I’m surprised he’s letting it go, and also relieved we’re not going to have a conversation about the future, or commitments, or any of the other million off-limits topics about our relationship. Or whatever this thing between us is called.

Enemies with benefits?

After a moment, Connor adds, “But if I were to say something—”