Time (Laws of Physics #3)(14)

“As the, uh.” As the prophesy foretold. “And thus, I die,” I choked out instead and tried to shrug, making a joke of it, because—OMFG—I was ten seconds from orgasming. Honestly and truly. My lungs were on fire, my body clenching around emptiness, my skin stretched too thin.

And I was mortified.

He’d barely touched me. There’d been no buildup. One small stroke followed by two barely there circles, and my body had gone zero to the speed of light.

I can’t breathe.

Some abrupt instinct had me clawing at his wrist, my hand fisting around his thumb to stop the efficient circles. I was wound too tight, it—everything—felt overwhelming.

“I—I’m—”

“Shh. Let me.” His lips were on my neck, making me shiver, and he pried my fumbling hands away, threading our fingers together.

And then he was guiding me to my back.

And then I was lying down.

And then he was there, over me.

I experienced a split second of pure terror, of fear, my mind telling me that someone was above me, covering me, holding me down, and I couldn’t move. Then Abram came into focus, settling himself between my open legs. Abram’s scent filled my lungs. Abram’s hips spread me wider. Abram’s mouth sucked at my neck, eliciting more shivers, and my terror was nearly eclipsed by the surfacing wonder of seduction.

Abram rolled his pelvis, and the hard length his erection pressed right where I needed. Fear diminished, waned, but didn’t completely extinguish. It became a quiet whisper instead of a clamorous shriek, inexplicably amplifying my senses without overwhelming them.

I can’t breathe.

But I did breathe. I inhaled him, the Abram fragrance that both calmed and excited me. It spread like a velvety cloud, invading and liquifying each clandestine corner and hidden space and secret desire. It communicated a history without words: security and safety, longing and need.

I gasped again, my back arching sharply, my hips wanting to move. “What—what—oh God.”

He made a noise, it sounded frustrated, his breathing now labored, his body heavy—so heavy—above me. Holding my hands on either side of my head, he rocked, sliding up and down, stroking me through our layers of clothes. I couldn’t move. I was wholly trapped, inexorably tangled up and in and by Abram.

I should’ve been feeling panic. I wasn’t. I was no longer the Mona who didn’t like to be touched or crowded. I was a cluster of nerves and dark wants, wanting this man to cover me, hold me down, take over. I enjoyed the loss of control, how my fear mingled with pleasure, heightening every sense and sensation.

This, what we were doing, definitely hadn’t been on any of my lists. We were fully clothed. Our bodies were touching through layers, but my hands were confined. His mouth was still on my neck, his breath falling on my skin, causing goose bumps, tingles, shivers, and heat. So much heat.

The only time I’d done anything close to what Abram and I were doing now had been last week, in the pool, when we’d mindlessly attacked each other. Nothing about this should have been sexy. But it was. I shouldn’t have wanted to be possessed and overpowered in this way. But I did.

It was the most spectacularly sensual event of my life. Yet, even as it happened, I knew this conclusion made no sense. It felt incomprehensible, indecent, scandalous, and the indecency quenched some hidden, unacknowledged thirst.

“I think I’m going to—”

Abram kissed me, stopping my words, his tongue coaxing, a complete contradiction to the hard press of his body. Releasing my hand closest to the wall, he leaned to the opposite side, still caging me in, stroking his fingers from my breast to my stomach and replacing his erection with his palm.

I groaned at the loss of him, of the heaviness and friction, until his hand slid inside my underwear and he parted me with his fingers.

I was sweating. My heart was racing. My mind was swimming. I still couldn’t breathe, but his scent was everywhere. He was everywhere. He was inside me, his hand in my pants, moving rhythmically in a way that—in the moment—felt wholly illicit, forbidden. He captured my cries and moans with his mouth, keeping me quiet like my pleasure was a secret, just for him.

I came, a shock of fire searing my nerves, to my fingers and toes, bursting behind my eyes. His composure, power, and precision made me crazed, made me feel as though I was his toy, or his instrument, and he was in total control. Bafflingly, I loved it.

His fingers thrust more forcefully, deeper, rubbing and stroking, prolonging my climax until I was boneless, exhausted, spent, sore low in my belly, and left with a cavernous ache in my chest. His amazing body, big and powerful, hard and mercenary next to mine, petting me, telling me wonderful and wicked things.

You are so fucking sexy.

I love watching you come. I love the way you feel. I love watching you lose control.

Do you want me here? Do you want me inside you?

Next time, I want the taste of you on my tongue.

Or, were those my thoughts? Did he say them? Or did I wish for them?

As the last of the spasms shook me and before I could disentangle myself, I turned toward him. He was gone. He’d left the bed. Rolling off and immediately pacing away.

Discombobulated and disheveled, I watched him, his hands braced on the far wall, his shoulders rising and falling. I felt the lack of him, a cold shock. I surfaced by degrees—Mona, me, the thinking, reasoned part of myself—and a sharp spike of alarm abruptly snuffed out any lingering residual exhilaration.