Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(33)
And somehow that felt exactly right to me, like the natural order of things.
“Kiss me,” I ordered—and there was a new note in my own voice, too, a strange undercurrent of command that I’d never heard myself make before.
Licking his lips, he leaned forward, and this time the kiss was feral, a spontaneous combustion. A full-blown, transporting fire that enveloped both of us completely.
He drew my bottom lip through his teeth, nipping it hard enough to hurt—because he knew already that this was what I liked—and the surge of our tongues together, his hands running up and down my back, sinking into my hair, felt like some gorgeous chaos. Like wheeling together through a star-riddled expanse of space veined with whole jeweled galaxies, the rest of the world fallen completely away from us.
I could feel how hard he was against me, and I slid my hand down the taut line of his belly to fondle the bulge of him pressed between us. He slipped my sweater entirely off my shoulder, letting it slide down my arm, sinking his mouth into the curve between my throat and shoulder, lips and tongue and teeth flickering against that hypersensitive juncture before he bit down on me. He was cupping one of my breasts, rolling my nipple between his fingers in that firm, deft way that felt like a stream of liquid fire, a vibrating silver thread drawn straight from nipple to clit.
I could hear myself moan, in a high, helpless pitch—and I could feel the effect it had on him, as if that separate sensation were also my own. The utter frenzy of desire it stoked him into to hear and feel me want him, even as the squeeze of my hand between his legs urged him on.
Holding me close with an arm wound tight around my waist, he unbuttoned my leather pants with his other hand, slipping his fingers past my panties and then farther down, grazing against my wetness and heat.
“Ahh, fuck me,” he groaned against my neck, fingertips circling my clit, strumming over and around it. I could feel the bright, keen pleasure beckoning already, so close—way too close, given how long we’d been doing this—and he felt me feel it, in a way that made his breath hitch against my skin. “Fuck, Nina, you’re so wet, you feel so good—”
“Take off your pants,” I said, again in that weirdly commanding, bell-like tone—and I liked it, liked hearing myself this way, in such control. It felt like me—the way I’d once been, with everything else—though that had never carried over into sex before. “And mine, too.”
Damn, Nina, not even a “please”? And yet tacking that on hadn’t even occurred to me.
He pulled away from me with a raw moan, shoving a hand into his back pocket to pull out a condom packet and set it beside me on the bar. Then he pulled his T-shirt over his head and tossed it over his shoulder, and unzipped and slid out of his jeans with impressive efficiency; apparently he hadn’t bothered to wear anything underneath.
My eyes flicking down, I caught a sharp breath at the size and breadth of him; very different and extremely more than I’d been expecting. The handful of men I’d slept with had not been this manner of equipped.
He glanced up at me for a moment from under black lashes, and I could feel the ripple of his amusement, that distinctly male undercurrent of pride, as if he were somehow responsible for his own size.
“This gonna be okay for you?” he asked, eyebrow lifted, a corner of his pretty mouth curling.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, but the surge of pure desire and thrill that reared up in me at the thought of trying swept all concerns aside. “But trust me, we’re going to give it a shot.”
He bent to yank off each work boot and step out of them, tossing both jeans and shoes haphazardly to the side. Rising smoothly, he helped me slip my sweater over my head and tug off my own pants. I leaned back and propped myself up on my hands, lifting my ass to let him peel them down my legs. He even got to his knees to gently slip off each of my boots, setting them down with much more care than he’d given his own shoes.
Like he was worshipping me, with that same reverence he’d spoken my name with before.
When he rose back up to meet me, I’d already ripped the condom open, reaching down for him.
“You really sure about this?” he asked again, exhaling sharply against my mouth as I pulled him closer, hand wrapped around his heat, then unrolled the condom over him. I was very out of practice, and it was far from a smooth maneuver, but even that level of clumsy contact left both of us shuddering with need.
“You know I am,” I murmured, winding my arms around his neck. “Come here.”
He did, mouth covering mine, positioning himself against me. I gasped sharply at even the gentle, tentative first nudge; even such careful pressure felt a little overwhelming. Responding to my hesitation, he moved to pull back—but I wrapped my legs around his hips, urged him closer with my heels dug into the backs of his thighs.
“No, no, don’t stop,” I whispered against his mouth. “Just, need a minute.”
He nodded, exhaling a ragged breath against my lips. I could feel his caution and the swell of desire jostling against it, as if both feelings were mine—and that respect for me, combined with the blazing want, only made me want him more.
“Okay,” I whispered, grazing my mouth over his. “Again.”
Slowly, with the utmost care, he moved against me, pressing a little deeper. This time, I relaxed into it as deeply as I could, lifting my hips to meet him, trusting that he’d stop exactly when and if I needed him to.