Deadly Game (GhostWalkers, #5)(60)

She clutched him tightly, her body writhing beneath his tongue and teeth, her breath coming in sobs as she pleaded with him to possess her. Her breathless cries added to the intensity of his pleasure. The nails biting deep into his skin, the scratches on his back he knew she didn’t realize she was putting there, all added to the building fire.

Retaining his hold on her hips, Ken slid off the bed, pulling her bottom to the edge to lift her legs over his shoulders. Fingers digging into her bottom, he pressed against her damp heat. Although she was slick and wet, and hungry for him, it seemed an impossible task to stretch her tight channel enough to accommodate his size.

And then he moved, ramming into her hard and deep, driving through her tight muscles to bury himself balls deep. A soft scream escaped from her throat, hastily muffled by the back of her hand. She stared up at him, eyes wide with shock and glazed over with feverish desire. The hard ridges on his cock rasped over her velvet-soft inner muscles, adding to the pleasure-pain of his deep penetration. He needed this, needed her and her acceptance of his control of her. She didn’t wince away from his appearance, and every hard, rough stroke took her pleasure higher. He made absolutely certain of that.

He controlled the rhythm, hard and fast, and then slow and deep, dragging her hips into him to double the impact, or holding her still so she could only accept his deep invasion. She was tight, tighter than he expected, and fiery hot, engulfing him in a velvet inferno. He rode her hard, pounding roughly to stimulate his cock—the glorious erotic bite of pleasure and pain as he stretched and thickened, as he forced her to take every inch of him, stretching her impossibly.

She went wild beneath him, ripping at his arms with her nails, slashing his chest, long, deep scratches as he drove her higher and higher, compelling her into a level of sexuality she’d never imagined. He held her thighs apart, yanking her legs higher, wider, refusing to give an inch, refusing to allow her to catch her breath. The pleasure was mushrooming out of control, turning into a whirling tornado spinning through both of them, taking them away from all reality.

He caught her hands, slammed both to the cot on either side of her head, ramming into her body in a frenzy of raging need, driving his cock so deep he thought he might lock them together forever. The lines in his face were etched deeper, his scars standing out starkly against his skin as her muscles gripped tighter and tighter, adding more and more friction and heat. Sweat beaded on his body, darkened his hair, but he kept thrusting, over and over, while his balls grew hard and his cock screamed for mercy.

He felt the explosion tear through her body, a dark tidal wave that rose and rose, refusing to be stopped. She sobbed, as he drove into her, the hot wash of her cream sending him over the edge, his own ejaculation ripping through him so forcefully his body shook. He was elated, ecstatic, more alive than he’d ever been. Maybe it was because he thought he’d lost his ability since the torture in the Congo, but he suspected the pleasure was so intense because he finally was with the right woman. His breath coming in ragged gasps, he collapsed over her.

“Son of a bitch, Mari, you nearly killed me.”

Her arm slid around his neck, her fingers tunneling in his thick hair. “I can’t think. And I’ll never walk again.”

She touched her tongue to her lips. Her breasts ached, her thighs; she throbbed between her legs. There was a burning sensation as if he’d stretched her and left her with skid marks. “I think I have road rash.” Her heart was never going to beat normally, and no one—no one—was ever going to satisfy her again.

Ken lifted his head to look at her. Her bone structure was so delicate, yet there was steel in her. She’d been afraid, but she’d put herself in his hands. Her fingertips skimmed over his face, over the scars, traced them down his neck to his chest. She leaned forward to press kisses where his skin was exposed. His heart turned over. She’d seen the monster and it hadn’t frightened her. He couldn’t help the possessive feeling rising to choke him. She wasn’t going back and he wasn’t doing the right thing. He could no more give her up now than he could shoot his brother.

“I’ll clean us both up in a minute, honey. Just give me a minute.” He had never felt like that, such an explosive orgasm, so complete and so unexpected when his body was so damaged. He knew the pressure it took against his skin to feel sensation, and her tight channel had given him more than he’d ever thought possible. It shook him that he could need this woman so much.

It wasn’t that he was totaled—on the contrary, he wanted to take a few minutes’ rest and start over again, a marathon this time—but she looked exhausted and a little freaked out that she’d given him so much of herself. He’d taken her cooperation, giving her little choice in the matter, but she had only fought him when the pleasure was skidding into pain and it had frightened her.

He hadn’t wanted to lie to her, to be something he wasn’t—something he couldn’t be. His body was ruined for anything but a certain kind of stimulation and she had to accept that. Hell. It had taken him months to get around the idea that he couldn’t perform, and then a few more weeks to acknowledge what might get him off.

“Did I hurt you?” His hands framed her face, thumbs sliding over her smooth, soft skin. She was so beautiful he ached.

“I don’t know.” She leaned forward and dragged her lips, featherlight, over his. “It was wild and amazing and somewhat frightening. I didn’t know sex could feel like that.” Her gaze slid away from his. “I’m not a virgin or anything, but I’ve never had an orgasm.” She touched a long scratch on his chest. “I was scared, but I wanted it so much. I didn’t want you to ever stop, not even when I said stop.”