Mogul (Manhattan #2)(55)
“I’m not your dad.”
I swallow. “I’m not your wife, either. You need to trust me. You need to—”
“I do; just be patient with me, Dancer.” Radiating frustration, he grabs my face in both hands and tips my gaze up to his, his eyes roving painfully slowly over my features. “I may fuck up sometimes and one day I may not be there on an important day, but I’ll try. And if I sometimes don’t have the right words, help me find them. And if you need something I’m not delivering, steer me in the right direction… please,” he hisses. “Please.”
“I will,” I breathe, my hands clamping on his hard jaw. “Love me. I love you like I never thought I could love anyone.”
“I do. Fuck, woman, I do.” He lifts me up in his arms and we’re kissing passionately, both a little drunk, a little too unhinged, a little too open. When Ian drops me on the bed, I claw at his slacks, needing his touch, his skin, his love.
“Hard,” I beg as he drops his slacks and boxers and kicks them aside. “As hard as possible, and don’t stop until morning.”
Ian’s tongue drags down my throat and cleavage as he spreads my thighs open, grabs his cock, and drives in so hard, I see stars. I claw at his back, bite his neck. Ian drags his hands up my sides, cupping my breasts in his warm palms, then curling a hand around my neck as he ducks to suck on my nipples. His hand stays on my throat, and suddenly he lifts his head. “Look at me. Look at me, damn you.”
I look at him, my pulse fluttering against his palm. I’m so undone by this guy that I wonder if I’ll ever be complete without him. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.” I hit his chest, my eyes wet with tears.
He gentles the pace, gentles his voice. “I’m too busy fucking you. Huh. Who’s fucking you?”
“You. Motherfu—”
He kisses me. Wipes a tear from my cheek. His face raw. “I wanted here. All fucking day I wanted here.”
I stroke my fingers down his jaw, gasping and thrashing as I moan. “I want you here, Ian. Always.”
“You do shit to me. I don’t like it either, but it’s there. It’s here.” He drops a hot kiss to my left breast, licking his way back to my mouth. “It’s everywhere, all the damn time, Sara. You’ve got me twisted up and I’m in so deep, I’m not planning to do anything about it but go deeper, baby.”
I groan softly as he flicks his tongue into my mouth. He rolls his hips harder, over and over, faster and faster, the tempo of our kiss increasing in synchrony with his thrusts, my own hips pushing up to meet his.
It’s a dance—and as much as I love dancing, I’ve never loved anything as much as I love doing this with him. Every part of my body is alive and moving, straining, searching for Ian, reaching for Ian, more and more Ian. Ian’s movements stimulate mine, just like my touches and kisses stimulate his. I’ve seen dancers move on stage, but I’ve never felt a man move so beautifully—or dance this dance or any other dance so fiercely—with me before. We’re the song and the dance, the tune and the variation, the violin and the player… the ache and the balm that heals it.
Ian’s own wild hunger somehow makes this dance of ours even rawer, more primitive. A dance you can only dance in the dark, or by yourself, or with your mate, so raw and primal that you don’t need lessons—you just move and follow the ache. Feed the ache. And nothing aches as much as my need for this guy.
I push him back and go down on him. He lets me, for a minute, two… then he rolls me back around and goes down on me like I’m his last supper.
I let him, briefly. Then I pull him up by the hair and straddle and ride him.
He lets me, but still needs more, so he rolls me to my back and bends my legs around his shoulders, and when he drives back in, I contort with pleasure and let out a long mewl of pleasure over being filled like this. Just like this.
All the time he watches me.
All the time I ache, need, want, dance, hum in silent pleasure. His voice is husky and thick when he tells me I make him hot and that he’s never been so fucking happy or wanted anyone or anything as much as he wants me. I tell him how hot he looks and how I never want to be without him.
When he rubs his thumb against my clit and continues pummeling me—watching my breasts bounce and my chest heave—I come, I come in colors, songs, movements, fabrics. I come in all ways and at the same time in no other way but this one. I come for him and because of him, and as if he knows this yet isn’t satisfied in my complete undoing nor in taking me every which way possible, Ian pulls out and takes his cock in his hand, pumping his fist down his hard length as he climaxes with a deep groan and eyes of twilight watching me, watching me as he rains his semen all over my abdomen.
Gasping as the warm drops touch my skin, I pant and watch his muscles ripple, his eyes flash on me, his jaw clench. I lick my lips, drinking him in, weepy, drunk, scared, in love, undone like only my hot Suit makes me. But I know as he’s finished and pulls me roughly, almost violently, to him, that whatever he makes me feel… I’m not alone in this.
Minutes later, I can feel his uneven breathing on my cheek as he holds me to him, the touch of his hand almost unbearable in his tender possessiveness. “Ian… did you mean what you said?” I whisper, tipping my face. “That you lo—”
He wraps his arm around my midriff and shifts me to lie over him, his breath hot and moist against my face, my heart racing when he answers.