Street Game (GhostWalkers, #8)(59)

Mack spread her thighs wider. How many nights had he driven himself insane dreaming of the taste of her? Of her open and giving herself to him again and again? There was a part of him that was still hurt and angry that she had left him so devastated, that she had so much power over him—that she could leave him. He would never have left her and yet she managed to stay away for two years and still refused to admit or acknowledge that she belonged to him.

He had thought to let her go, to let her find out there was no one else for her, that there never would be, but he never imagined she might find another man. He never imagined her letting anyone touch what belonged exclusively to him.

“Damn you, Jaimie,” he growled and lifted her hips toward his face and buried himself in her.

She cried out, a harsh, broken sound, as he swept his tongue over and into her damp, hot core. His tongue pushed deep, seeking her exotic taste. He’d craved this for so long, her wild, exciting flavor. Nothing else could ever satisfy him. Her cries, her shuddering, thrashing body, soft like silk, hot as hell, all for him. He knew exactly where to touch her, an instinct he possessed, had always possessed, but now it was far more acute. Each stroke of his tongue, each stabbing twist, an artist’s flick, the lapping of a cat, all brought sensual writhing and soft, sobbing gasps of mindless pleasure.

No one could ever replace Jaimie and the unreserved way she gave herself to him. She arched her body into him and pleaded for more, nearly as insane with arousal as he was. He sank a finger into her as his tongue teased at her clit. He used the edge of his teeth and she came apart, her muscles squeezing, clamping down hard so that his cock pulsed in anticipation.

It wasn’t enough for him. “More,” he insisted, his voice harsh with lust. “Give me everything, Jaimie, all of you.”

His tongue swept deep, licking and sucking, giving her no respite, demanding she go higher, taking her to new heights, driving her up fast and hard. Her body shuddering, she dug her heels into the floor and tried to squirm and thrash out from under him, but he held her firmly, lapping and sucking, devouring the nectar spilling from her body. His. All for him.

Her energy bled into his, surrounding him, connecting them closer so they seemed so wrapped in each other, he wasn’t certain where she started and he left off. He already had a taste of what life was like without her and he wasn’t willing to ever go there again. He was determined to bind her to him again.

Her stomach muscles bunched beneath his spread fingers and her voice strangled in her throat as her body locked, clamping down like a vise and then flying apart.

“Mack,” she sobbed his name, still trying to move out from under him even as her hips pushed into him.

“That’s right, honey. Mack. There is no one else for you, only me. Always me.” He bent his head a third time to her, feasting, and she orgasmed again, a wild, broken cry escaping her throat.

He knelt up, dragged her to him, lifting her hips as he drove himself deep, drove himself home, her sweet sheath, hot and tight surrounding him. He belonged. She was home to him and always would be. She was everything. His other half. Her body gripped his, clamping down hard, squeezing and massaging. He pulled back and her soft cry of denial was music to him. He positioned her legs over his arms, giving himself more control and more leverage.

“Jaimie, look at me.”

He saw her throat convulse. She turned her head, the mass of damp black curls spilling like skeins of silk around her head. Her skin was covered in a fine sheen, her eyes dazed from the continual orgasms he demanded from her—extracted from her.

“Keep looking at me,” Mack commanded. “I don’t want any mistakes made about who you’re with. About who you belong to.” He drove deep through the tight, velvet folds, snapping his teeth together as fire streaked through him. She was scorching hot and getting hotter, if that was possible. He lifted her hips as he hammered down, imprinting his body in hers, reclaiming her, making certain she knew that claiming was what he was doing.

He refused to allow her to look away from him. His gaze held hers captive as his hands gripped her hips and his body took possession. A low, broken cry escaped again as he levered himself over her, his rhythm strong and hard, each stroke deep and deliberate, dragging over the sensitized bundle of nerves again and again, gentle and then rough, at once a caress and a harsh demand.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as he increased his pace, rebuilding the tension inside her, coiling her tighter and tighter, pushing her further than she’d ever gone with him before. Her head tossed, but her eyes never left his. She clung as if he was her only anchor, her nails biting into his shoulders like brands, sending him even higher. He drove between her damp thighs with a kind of fury, a rhapsody of torment and pleasure for both of them.

Jaimie couldn’t break his hold on her and she knew exactly what he was doing—proving to her that she would never have this, this absolute torturous bliss, with any other man. No one could nearly kill her with pleasure, drive her so insane she couldn’t think, only feel, only burn hotter and hotter until she was desperate, afraid she’d burst into flame from the inside out.

The energy binding them together increased the sensitivity of her already passion-inflamed body, but more, she could feel his body, every stroke of his velvet-encased steel shaft slamming home, filling and stretching her, streaking fire through both of them. She felt his lust rising like a tide. She felt his anger as he hammered home the point—his. She was his. She would always be his.