Black Ice - Anne Stuart [104]
She felt as if they were in a snow globe—roughly shaken, but now all was still and silent with the flakes drifting down around them in their safe little glass jar. She could always try to fight her way out of that strange surrender, but she didn’t want to. He was right. They could be dead in a matter of hours. She could have what she wanted, needed, right now, and there might be no consequences to live with. No life to live with. And if she was going to die she wanted to spend the last hours of her life in bed with a man whose name she didn’t even know.
He unfastened the bra with a flick of his fingers, the same bra she’d struggled to fasten a short while ago, and he pulled it from her body and tossed it. He moved slowly, touching her nipple with his tongue, and she felt it stiffen immediately into a hard, tight knot that matched the hard, tight knot between her legs. She’d never thought her breasts were particularly sensitive, but he seemed to know just how to touch them, suck them, slide his tongue over them until she was shaking with reaction. Just when she thought she was going to climax simply from the feel of his mouth tugging at her breast, his tongue swirling around the tip, he moved down, his mouth dancing across her flat stomach, and his hands slid under the lace straps of the panties and pulled them down her long legs. His mouth followed—on her hips, her legs, the insides of her knees, moving up again, and when he put his mouth between her legs she trembled, reaching for him, threading her hands through his long, thick hair as it fell over her hips.
He cupped her hips, pulling her thighs apart, and his mouth was like nothing she’d ever felt, an invasion, a branding, a claiming that felt so total and absolute that she could do nothing but let him touch her, lick her, bite her, using his mouth in ways she hadn’t imagined, until he slid his fingers inside her, and she arched off the bed in sudden, rigid climax that was fast and hard and like nothing she’d ever felt.
It was fast, it was short, and she sank back, breathless, only to have him start it all over again, building slowly, gently, into a greater intensity so that when he slid his fingers inside her she cried out this time, and the orgasm held for longer. As long as he seemed to want to hold it.
She collapsed back on the bed, panting, shaken, and reached out to touch his face. “No more,” she whispered. “I can’t…”
“Of course you can,” he whispered between her thighs. This time the simple touch of his tongue sent her into spasms, and the shocking feel of his fingers finished her. She thought she screamed, she who usually made love in discreet silence, but it didn’t matter, since he was prepared, covering her mouth with his hand, so that her cries fell into his skin and nowhere else.
And that final freedom made it complete. She didn’t have to hold anything back, she could scream, she could cry, and could simply let go of her body and let it happen, let him do whatever he wanted, and she gave in willingly, ready to vanish into a thick maelstrom of unimaginable power.
When she fell back on the bed in a mindless, boneless heap he moved his hand from her mouth, falling back beside her,