Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(34)

“These have been wet all day today, haven’t they?” he asks. My moan is confirmation enough and my hips lurch toward him on their own. “I’d like to shred them but I’ve grown rather attached.” He slides them off in one swift move. Naked for the first time, my hands fly down to cover myself.

“None of that.” He shoves my hands away not at all gently. He looks exultant. His control is slipping too. Good, he can’t wait much longer, and frankly, I will go up in flames if he does. He starts a trail of kisses inside my thigh. His destination is obvious. Once there, he blows a warm gust of air that makes me hiss. He places a small kiss on my pubic bone. His stubble tickles. His words rain on me again, sentences now, commands, dirtier and, oddly, more romantic. More intimate. Some I can repeat, some I cannot. He continues undeterred and finally, finally, he is at the center where the frenzy is at its worst.

His mouth closes on the spot at the same time that one of his fingers slips inside me. My cry rends the air and I grip the bed cover. My hips start to writhe on their own. He restrains me with his other hand and sucks in rhythm with his finger, sending another cry in the air. Then his tongue takes over, circling, and a second finger joins. The pressure of his mouth increases. My thoughts break. Faster. Deeper. Harder. I’m tensing. Rising. Falling. Tunnel vision. Darker at the edges. Breaking. Burning. Calling. Fire. Ice. Air. Aiden. Aiden. Aiden.

A scream is echoing on the walls and in my head. I crash back on the bed. Was I levitating? As the world resurfaces, I still feel his mouth on me but now in kisses, like a soothing, hushing motion.

I feel new. Almost sacred. Benediction through sin—what a concept. I gaze at him, and he looks victorious. He traces kisses up, up and up until he comes flush against me, face-to-face.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice bending under his own need.

“Hey,” I whisper back hoarsely.

I wonder if he can see the worshipful adoration in my eyes. He kisses my lips and my single rational brain cell registers where his mouth has just been. I can’t quite care. His desperation breaks through the kiss, and he knots his fingers in my hair, pulling at it almost angrily. His teeth clamp down on my lower lip and his tongue begins an encore performance inside my mouth.

When he breaks the kiss, his voice is guttural, husky. “I need you. You still want this?”

“Yes,” I say confidently, “more than anything.” I sound needy even to myself. How can I crave him so desperately after what my body just went through? Although, maybe it is precisely because my body knows now, and it is finally free to soar and fall.

He watches me for an instant, as if he cannot believe it. There is something new in his eyes. Beyond the raw need, the beast, the darkness—something far in the back that is seeing the light for the very first time.

He rains kisses on my nose, my eyelids, my cheeks. His hands travel down my body. Their caress is unbearably sweet. Different than his previous demanding possession. I get lost, focusing on the dusting of hair, rough against my newborn skin, and the flexing of his muscles on my chest, my belly, my thighs.

From somewhere near or far, I hear the scrape of a drawer opening and closing. My eyes focus as Aiden edges himself between my legs. He tears the foil of a condom with his teeth and slides it over himself without needing to look at what he is doing.

“Don’t worry, I’m clean,” he says. “But knocking you up would be a new low, even by my standards.”

I don’t know what he means but since I only have one rational brain cell left, I tuck it away. “Umm…I’m clean too,” I mumble.

He chuckles. “Somehow, I wasn’t very worried.”

I blush. Way to be an idiot, Snow. He comes back to my mouth, all humor gone, and his hands move to my lower back. He massages every spot on his way down, around my hips, my behind and my thighs. My muscles—already Jell-O—relax and my eyes close.

“Eyes open. I want to see you. Always,” he commands. He sounds strained, at the far edge of control, and I feel a small amount of pride. Okay, I’m not that bad at this. His hands continue the massage, and my hips sink sleepily against the covers where he holds them. Then, in a sudden movement, he slides inside me. The feeling is bewildering. I stop my cry on its way out. Not because it does not hurt, but because this is not a moment for a cry or for a cliché glass-breaking scream. This is my resurrection and, I have a feeling, perhaps his redemption. These are moments when the soul does the calling and the body must listen. My fingers dig into his arms and I breathe. He watches me with awe, then kisses my lips.

“Almost there,” he says gently, and I realize he has remained silent too. He thrusts deeper and stops as he reaches the farthest confines of my body, into dark, unknown places. At the full, achy feeling, my teeth clamp down on his lower lip to ease the impact. He gives me time to adjust. Slowly, I release his lip, kissing it, afraid that I hurt him. He smiles.

“Beautiful, Elisa,” he whispers. His husky voice turns my name into music. I relax, and he pulls back slowly. Despite the ache, I feel empty immediately and want more.

“One more time,” he murmurs, and now he flies inside me without stops. My fingers dig again into his arms but I’m adjusting. It’s not pain exactly; it’s a desperate ache that wants more of him, not less. He rests again. Of their own accord, my hips shift needily against his.

He smiles a pure, unadulterated smile and starts moving over and over, without any stops this time. There is only fullness and a slow rhythm I can follow. I let my lungs free and moans that have nothing to do with pain surround us. I wind my arms around his neck and he wraps my legs around his waist. My hips move hesitantly at first, but he guides them until they undulate eagerly against him. He picks up his rhythm and I falter, trying to keep up. I cannot.