Perfect Gravity (Wanted and Wired #2)(57)
Patient hand beneath her ratty skirt now, persistent, steady. Merciless. If she told him to stop, she had a sense he would. But what a fucked-up thing that would be. She couldn’t even let herself think it. Mustn’t.
He broke their kiss, pulled it into pieces, separated and sorted. Where before the kiss itself had been a bright point, a supernova in their connection, now there were a dozen or more star points. His mouth at her throat and trailing downward. His hand soothing up the inside of her trembling thigh, bunching her torn skirt up against her hip. The scruff of his jaw, desperately in need of a shave and chafing the delicate skin covering her pulse. His other arm, braced against the car door, holding the rest of his body steady in its exploration.
His teeth trailing there, sharp and dangerous and just for an instant.
She knew why the damsels screamed for a vampire’s bite.
Do it, do it. Make it hurt. Make me shatter.
She wasn’t aware that she was making sounds until his low “shhhhh” blew in against her clavicle. The slow, sweet stroke of his hand up her leg paused. “You say the word and I stop, sweetheart,” he said.
She opened her mouth, only to find that she was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. She struggled, got control of that, but it took a few seconds. Her mind screamed, Don’t you fucking dare stop.
But out-loud words became an impossibility, because right at the same moment, his hand completed its journey, found her naked slit, and stroked the length of it, basting her with her own desire. His forefinger circled her clitoris, spiraling into a pleasure point so hot, so bright and pure and amazing, she had no control, slammed her eyes shut, and keened, writhing against the poly-skinned seat.
And then, shit how did he do this they were in a goddamned car and no way there was room had he cut off his legs or what because because because his mouth was there. Where before his fingers had been. Surrounding her clitoris, forming a vacuum, pulling. Oh holyfuckgoddamn, it was good. So good. So…
No words. Just feeling.
A part of her struggled for a heartbeat, then two, trying to reconcile thought-emotion-transmission. Trying to instill a passive, pleasant mien and then alter her brain electrics and therefore emotions to match. Autosynchrony. Years of training.
Devolved to blank pleasure in the space between one breath and the next.
His long fingers within her, his mouth on her, he did break her. Apart and into a zillion pieces. And it was fucking glorious.
Synchrony shattered, exploded, paused at apex, and slammed back together in one immolative point of sensation.
She didn’t remember reaching, pulling his shirt till the buttons gave, shoving her hands into his hair, or holding on for dear life. She realized it only after the fury passed, only after she could breathe again.
“Holy fuck,” she said, and even those spare words came out on a pant.
He chuckled, a low rumble against her pelvis.
“Kellen?”
“Right here, princess.”
“I haven’t come that hard in ten years.”
“Well, don’t you know how to make somebody feel special.”
“You do rather a good job yourself.” The intensity had changed, but all the tension was still there, spooling around them, broidering them into one fused, decorative pattern. “May I touch you now?”
“Uh, yeah. Knock yourself out.”
That’s when she noticed the shirt, missing buttons. His dark-gold hair mussed. God, he was gorgeous. “Tilt your seat back, like mine,” she said.
He did. Climbing over wasn’t easy. Especially not when her whole body felt like electrified pudding. But her will made it possible, found places for her knees to plant, to steady, for her arms, her mouth to settle. Found time to unfasten his jeans, bare his body. Every part fitted to its place, a regression from chaos into perfect order. She needed this, him. She needed, needed to fill herself with this man. Fusion, power, arcing up the nuclear binding energy curve. Meltdown imminent, but she was pegging full power anyhow.
Tilting forward onto him, sliding him into her swollen, aching body. Welcome. Welcome home, my love. Every millimeter of invasion lit chain explosions, critical stability failures. Control slipping. Fail-safes shattered. Stars collided. She came again, completely without warning, convulsing around him, clenching him into her.
His face buried in the lee of her neck, his hands spasming, one beneath her blouse, capping her spine, the other spread over her bare ass, stroking her onto him. Did he feel this too, the same bliss she felt? But no, she wasn’t transmitting. Was so completely out of control anyhow, any transmission would be a mess. From far, far away, a stern voice told her she was doing it wrong, had failed to identify key brain-emotion causalities.
In that moment, Angela gave precisely zero fucks.
She pushed her rear into the cup of his hand then ground downward, sliding her mons against his pelvis until the ache bled sweet throughout her whole body.
“If my pleasure is what does it for you,” she murmured against his hair, “then you ought to be enjoying the fuck out of this. I’ve already come twice.”
A mumble against her throat, below her ear, the bass burr that clamped itself to her spine and sent shudders through her whole body: “Am fixin’ to meet you right there, sweetheart.”
She felt it, when he came. Deep, deep. Jolt of tension in his body, hitch in his breath, and the steady thrust upward stilled. She settled atop him, let him work through the onslaught. Pressed a hot, sated kiss against his hair.