Prisoner of Night (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #16.5)(29)

When she pushed her hands between them, he popped his hips up to create the space she needed to undo his fly, her fly. The shucking, inefficient and maddening, came next as they tried to keep kissing while kicking off everything south of the waist.

He had no underwear. Hers were no big deal.

And then they were fully naked.

Duran was magnificent skin to skin. And there were so many places to go with her hands and mouth . . .

But that would come later. First this essential union. Then the exploration.





17




DURAN HAD NEVER THOUGHT there could be anything more visceral, more consuming . . . more important . . . than revenge. Everything else he had ever experienced had been in the category of discardable distractions, the sights, smells, thoughts, or feelings like pennies spilled from his pockets, nothing valuable enough to make him stop and retrieve what he’d lost or ignored.

This, however . . . this consumed him even more than his revenge.

Tasting Ahmare, feeling her skin against his, hearing her breath catch and then explode on an exhale, all of it was, for the first time since he had become aware of his father’s cruelty and his mahmen’s suffering, a submersion of sense and sensation so complete that another need took the wheel of his intent and intentions and charted a course he was not going to argue with.

Hell, all he wanted to do was stomp on the gas.

And now was the moment.

As Ahmare tilted her hips and he felt the first brush of his erection over the hot core of her, he knew there was no going back.

Actually, that probably had been true the instant he had sensed her on the far side of the waterfall in his cell.

Some things were inevitable.

Some leaps were taken before you were aware of going over the edge.

Some songs called you too magically.

Except now, he fumbled. Everything leading up to this had been so smooth, as if they had done this a million times before even though it was a first for him on all accounts and obviously something fresh to her. But now he poked around, his cock’s head swelling with every misguided almost-there, the half thrusts of his hips the kind of blind navigation that would get him where they needed him to be only by a stroke of luck.

Pun intended.

Ahmare solved this increasingly urgent problem by reaching between them, just as she had when she’d undone both of their pants. He gasped as her hand touched him, the bolt of electricity so great he saw stars and thought with horror that he’d orgasmed. But no. When the shock cleared, he was still hard and he hadn’t left a mess all over her—

His body knew what do to.

As soon as she made the connection, something took over, his hips thrusting forward and driving him deep into her hold. Dimly, he was aware of a streak across his shoulders, her nails biting into him as she kicked her head back and arched up into his torso with a moan. Taking the back of her head in the palm of his hand so he didn’t knock her out, he meant to go slow—and did nothing of the sort.

Pistoning against the cradle of her hips, he pounded into her, his lips peeling off his descended fangs, the need to bite her a not-right-now for two reasons: One, he hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t offered, but also because he’d have to slow down, maybe stop.

And that was impossible.

With every penetration and each retreat, he was building momentum and she was right there with him, matching his rhythm, mirroring his greed for more, faster, harder, more. Off in the distance, coming at him with lightning speed, was a terminal point of pleasure, and in the back of his mind, he remembered running out of Chalen’s dungeon toward her car, an optical illusion making him believe the vehicle was rushing toward him instead of the other way around—

The intrusion of reality threatened to ground him, like a stake through his chest into the earth below, and he lost his step in the dance with Ahmare, his brain tripping him up, his rhythm off.

He shouldn’t have worried, though.

All he had to do was look down into her eyes, her beautiful, shining eyes, and he was plugged right back into the moment.

She came as their stares found each other, and it was so incredible that this time he slowed because he was savoring the experience, not because he’d lost a connection to it. As pleasure came to her, her face contorted and her body stiffened, and around his erection, he felt her delicious hold tightening and releasing—

“Duran . . . oh, God, Duran.”

No one had ever said his name like that before. And he was captivated by the way she gasped and grabbed onto him, her breath seeming to freeze in her lungs. She was in heaven, and he knew he had put her there, and that was, even more than whatever his body was feeling, the very best part of what was an amazing experience.

He also had no intention of stopping.

As he rolled his hips and stroked her on the inside, she said his name again and moved her hands up to his shoulders, half-moons of sweet sting making him smile because he wanted her to draw blood from him. He wanted her to use him for her own pleasure for the rest of their lives, taking everything he had to give, accepting all parts of him.

As he continued to thrust, so she continued to orgasm. And he concentrated completely on what worked for her. What made her moan. How to go even deeper by gripping the back of one of her knees and cranking her leg up.

He didn’t know what had given him the idea. But it was a stroke of genius going by the way she responded.