Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(81)

He pulled down the starry-starry tap pants. Slowly, slowly. From this angle, her ass looked like an upside-down heart. But it was space between that drew his attention. “Foot up,” he said in a hoarse voice, kicking the tap pants aside after she stepped out of them. Then he nudged her legs apart. “Wider.”

“Lowe . . .”

“Hush.” He sank to his knees behind her and kissed the tops of her stockings. Licked along the shadowed crevice beneath each ample buttock. She made small, breathy noises. And when she fidgeted, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, he spread her open with both hands. “My God,” he murmured. So slick and swollen, her flushed pink flesh was framed by damp, dark curls.

Drugged by the scent of her sex, he leaned in and took a long, lazy taste from front to back, until she whimpered and her knees bent. Then he did it again, dipping into the warm liquid that pooled at her center. So wet. All for him.

“Please,” she murmured.

Oh, how he loved it when she begged. If he could hear her repeat that one word every day for the rest of his life, he’d die happy. And he tried to hold out, to coax it from her again, but at the moment, he was just as greedy for her pleasure as she was.

He pressed his face closer and found the small bud with the tip of his tongue, flicking it from side to side several times to gauge her reaction. And when she cried out and tilted her ass up to give him better access, he gave in completely and gave her what she wanted: Steady licks with the flat of his tongue. Up and down, down and up, sucking and flicking. Circling this way, and then the other. As long as he gave her a steady rhythm, she gave him the most glorious noises in return.

And for a time, he almost thought he could go on like this, giving and not taking, but the insistent ache in his balls was too much to bear. Christ, she turned him into a ravenous animal, unable to control himself. No one else had ever had this unrelenting pull on him. Her scent, taste, shape. Her laugh. Her icy stare. Her posh accent. The way she squinted one eye when solving a problem. Every bit of it made him hard. Thank God he hadn’t met her when he was seventeen and barely able to make it through a few hours at school without a release—he might never have graduated.

Holding her open to him with one hand, he struggled to unbutton his fly, fingers shaking. His cock sprang into his palm, heavy and hard as steel. A shuddering relief passed through him as he stroked himself. Goddammit, he just couldn’t wait.

Ignoring her vocal protest, he stood, spread her wide, and, guiding himself with one hand, sank into her wet heat with a unsteady groan. She tensed, shouting as her body arched off the glass.

“Whoa,” he cautioned, and put a firm hand on her back to force her down as he began moving. Fast. Hard. No inhibition or restraint. Just a manic rush toward oblivion and an unyielding drive to push her further than he ever had. To conquer and claim her.

And if some quiet voice inside him was warning him to be careful and consider the ghosts from her past as he held her down, thrusting into her wildly, then a much louder voice extinguished his doubts.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she cried. “Thank you, God, yes, thank you . . .” Holding on to the edge of the case, she turned her head to the side, one cheek against the glass and an openmouthed look of rapture on her face.

Not fragile. Not broken. Not haunted.

Her cries echoed around the shadowed room, bouncing off the display cases and pillars. They truly might be caught after all. But damned if he was going to reel her in. He just shifted his grip, grabbing hold of her fleshy hips in both hands, and rode her until sweat trickled down his neck. Until they were nothing but two parts of a machine, each fueling the other’s pleasure. Until her punctuated moans and prayers grew desperate and she clenched around him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me.”

He slipped his hand around her hip, to plunder her damp curls. His middle finger grazed the tight bud once, twice . . . She gasped for a breath. Jerked. Clutched around his cock until he groaned and thrust harder. And then . . .

Yes.

There it was: the bewildered, broken wail. He pushed her through the orgasm, hips pumping, finger rubbing her clitoris until her cries calmed and she pulsed around him. Thrust her hand over his to signal that she couldn’t take any more.

A possessive joy rang inside his chest as warmth gathered at the base of his spine. Christ, his balls were ready to explode. Picking up speed, he drove into her with hellbent purpose, ready to join her. And, oh, God—no.

No wonder it felt so good. He’d forgotten the goddamn condom.

How didn’t matter. He just had to pull out. Now.

Acting on some crazed, feral impulse, he groaned and jerked himself out of her wet heat—a f*cking saint, he was—and grabbed her arm. He vaguely heard a surprised moan as he urged her onto her knees, one hand on the back of her head. Christ, she had every right to hate him for this, but he just couldn’t stop as he took himself in hand and prodded the tip of his cock against her mouth.

“Hadley,” he begged. He was a dog, and he knew it, but please just . . .

Her lips parted. Wide brown eyes locked with his as she closed her mouth around him and sucked.

His mind emptied. Head tipped back. Ecstasy rushed forward. He thrust into her mouth and came.

And came.

Gods above, it felt like he was spilling his very soul into her. He shuddered, nearly losing his footing as he swayed over her, hand fisted in her hair. Christ! He could barely breathe. But as heady gratification pulsed in his veins, the outer edges of his world bled back into view. And with that, a slow, heavy shame moved into his chest.