Black Ice - Anne Stuart [105]
“Sleep now, Chloe,” he whispered, his voice soft, soothing.
The lassitude vanished. Her eyes shot open, and she turned her head to look at him. He lay on his back, seemingly at ease, still fully dressed, the murky light drifting across him.
She spent one moment considering the possibilities. That he didn’t want her, had no need of her or her body, had only given her what he’d promised without giving anything of himself. And then she ignored it. If they were going to die, she wasn’t going to waste another moment on a rash of stupid insecurities.
She rose on one elbow, looking at him. Her muscles trembled slightly under her, but she ignored her unexpected weakness. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t open his eyes, the rat bastard. “Sleeping,” he said.
“No,” she said. “You’re not.” And she reached over and began unfastening the row of black shell buttons on his shirt.
One hand came up and caught hers, stopping her once more, but she wasn’t about to be distracted. “Let go of my hand,” she said. “We’re not finished here.”
“I am.”
She pulled her hand free, slid it down his stomach to touch him. Hard, pulsing, through the black pants. “No, you’re not,” she said, as she began to unbuckle his belt. “And neither am I.”
“Chloe…”
“Shut up,” she said ruthlessly, and she freed him, leaned over and put her mouth on him.
He was cool and smooth and silken, hard as ice in her mouth, and she had no idea where the pleasure came from that filled her as she let her mouth learn him. She only knew it made her tremble with its strength.
He’d stopped arguing. She reached a hand up to blindly rip at his shirt, but he was helping her now, unbuttoning it and pulling it off, and then his hands cupped her head, and he talked to her, whispered words in gutter French as she slowly sucked and pulled at him with her mouth, and she was sweating, shaking with the power of the response she was drawing from him, when he suddenly pulled her away, moving back against the head of the huge old bed, kicking the rest of his clothes onto the floor so that he was now as naked, as ready as she was.
“If you really want me, Chloe, you have to take me,” he said.
She sat back on her heels to look at him. And then she put her hands on his shoulders, the smooth, strong skin, and climbed on top of him, straddling him as he sat there on the bed.
She felt momentarily self-conscious. “I’ve never done this…” she said.
“Good.” He pulled her the rest of the way, positioning her over him, moving so that she could feel the head of his cock just touching her. “Now it’s up to you.”
She moved, just enough to let him enter her, and a look of almost exquisite pleasure crossed his face, and his quick intake of breath was so erotic that she pushed down, so that he filled her, so deep, so tight that she almost climaxed again.
He’d closed his eyes, but his long fingers were clutching her hips, and only the slightest pressure made her move, rise up, then slowly down again, and his guttural groan seemed to vibrate inside her own body. She rested her forehead on his shoulder as she moved, he moved, together, the rise and fall, deep and hard, and he was talking to her, telling her lies that she wanted to believe, all in French, words of praise and love and sex and the dark, spiraling need that suddenly flamed out of control as he exploded inside her. And without expecting it she lost the last tiny bit of self-control, following, and she was sobbing quietly against his skin, shaking with the force of their joining, until she collapsed against him, gasping for breath.
She didn’t know what she expected. Not that he would turn, with her still tight in his arms, stretching her out beneath his strong body, and she knew that even though he’d climaxed inside her he was still hard, getting harder, and she didn’t think she