Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [58]
He wanted more. He slid his fingers inside her, and she moaned. He couldn’t believe how tight she was, tight and wet, and then he stopped thinking as he felt her shatter, her breath coming in deep, gasping gulps as her body arched.
He rose, lifting her, pressing her against the wall, pulling her legs around his hips, so damned ready for her, and he wanted to slam into her, hard, but he held back, controlling himself. He started to pushed inside her, just a little bit, into the tight wet heat of her, slowly, then pulled out again, so that she made a little mewling cry of need, and then he went deeper, a shallow, taunting rhythm just to drive every thought, every memory, out of her mind, just to drive himself crazy.
He went deeper with each thrust, getting her used to him, and she dropped her head against his shoulder. He could feel the wetness of her tears, the trembling of her body, and it wasn’t enough. He had to bring her all the way there, with nothing held back, and he thrust into her, completely, and she let out a small cry that sounded like pain.
He froze, ready to pull out, but she clutched him even tighter. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”
And then there was no way he could have. His body took over, slamming into her. With each thrust she tightened around him, and when the climax hit her it brought him along with it, and he pulled out, quickly, still holding her against the wall as the orgasm ripped through her body. It should have been enough, but he was greedy, and he put his hand between her legs, touching her, and she slammed her face against his shoulder, muffling her scream.
He made it last. Long enough that all conscious thought had left her, and she was animal, elemental and his. He turned her from the wall and pushed her down on the bed, following her, and he was still hard, or maybe he was hard again; he’d been too busy paying attention to her to even notice whether his erection had ever faded. It only mattered that he was hard and he still wanted her, and when he pushed her back and moved between her legs she arched her hips, her hands reaching out for him, to pull him into her, deep and tight, and she climaxed again when he filled her.
This time he could keep it up forever—she needed oblivion and she was right, he knew how to give it. He could last all night long if she needed it, and even if his cock gave out he could still make her come from a dozen other ways. He didn’t want her thinking, feeling, anything but him, inside her.
By the time she fell asleep there wasn’t a space on her body that he hadn’t touched. She lay sprawled on the bed, in a deep, dreamless sleep, and he lay beside her, watching her, as the sun rose over the Tokyo skyscrapers. Watched her as he felt something inside him knot. Dread, and longing, and something he refused to even think about.
There was a smear of blood on the bed, and he stared at it. There was no such thing as a twenty-year-old virgin—maybe she was just coming off her period. He wasn’t squeamish about such things, but that wouldn’t explain her initial pain, or her unexpected tightness.
Shit. It was impossible. When he’d kissed her, back at his apartment, she hadn’t responded, but he’d thought that was because he’d been goading her. Maybe she really didn’t know how.
He pushed off the bed. She’d sleep for hours now, the nightmares chased away for the time being. And maybe his nightmare was just beginning.
The sun was beating against her eyelids, determined to wake her, and she didn’t want to move. Her entire body hurt, and yet for once she was lying on a real mattress, not on a thin futon or in a plastic capsule. She stretched, and every muscle, every joint, felt achy in a deliciously decadent way she’d never felt before.
And then memory came flooding back with a horrifying swiftness. Reno