Cold as Ice - Anne Stuart [95]
She was shivering, and he brushed the hair away from her face and broke the kiss, pulling her back enough to look at him, to meet his steady gaze. “Do it,” he whispered to her. “If you want it, do it.”
She closed her eyes and touched him, placing him against her, and she sank down, taking him inside her, slowly, where he needed to be, where he belonged. When she stopped, just short of completion, he caught her hips and pulled her the rest of the way down, so that he was deep inside, and he owned her, belonged to her, and there was nothing else but his cock inside her, her fingers digging into his arms, her eyes closed and her head thrown back as she began to move.
He’d gotten her this far, he couldn’t disgrace himself by coming too quickly, ending before she had even begun, but the feel of her body, wet and tight around him, was a pleasure almost too powerful to bear. She was moving faster now, and he caught her hips, helping her find the rhythm, pushing up to meet her, the thick slide of flesh against flesh, and she was gasping now, clutching at him, reaching for a release that she didn’t know how to take.
But he knew how to give. He took her hand from his shoulder, put it between their bodies and made her touch herself. The effect was instant, electric. She cried out, and he could feel her body clenching, milking him, and he wanted nothing more than to let go.
But she wasn’t finished. He knew women’s bodies, loved women’s bodies, and he knew that even with the power of her orgasm she needed more. He put her hands back on his shoulders, put an arm around her butt and turned her underneath him without breaking the connection, still lodged deep inside her.
She hadn’t come down from her first powerful climax when the second hit her body. She held on to him, head thrown back, eyes closed, holding on to him as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through her body, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer, but the sight of her, the feel of her caught up in her climax was almost better than his own.
He pulled her legs up higher around his hips, pushing in deeper still, and she made a quiet noise, one of both pain and pleasure, and he knew she was finally ready, he was finally ready, as her fingers curled onto his shoulders…
And then she started to pull her hands away, and he knew she was thinking about the scratch marks on his back, and he could feel her begin to retreat.
He caught her hands, curled them and pulled them onto his back, raking down his skin.
And she was lost. He could feel her shattering in his arms, and then he was with her, torn in a thousand pieces, holding on to her as he spilled deep inside her, an endless release that took everything, everything from him.
He was too heavy for her, but he knew he had no strength left to support himself, so with his last bit of power he pulled free, rolling to his side and taking her with him, keeping her tight within the circle of his arms as he held her.
They were both shaking. It was small solace, he thought as his mind slowly returned from that bright, treacherous place. He already knew he was lost. He’d hoped to keep some part of himself safe, but the moment he’d kissed her, the moment he’d come for her, the first moment he’d seen her standing in Harry’s salon with a stick up her ass, he knew it was going to be like this.
He’d be better off dead.
He wasn’t the kind of man who could love a woman, live with one, not one he cared about. He was made to be alone, with no connections and no strings. It was the only safe way to be, even if in the end it killed you.
Bastien was the only one he knew who’d been able to escape. But he was the rare exception—people who’d been chosen by the Committee were made