Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [65]
She had exquisitely sensitive breasts, reacting to even his lightest touch. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles against his hands, and he wanted to put his mouth on them, needed to, when she moved her head and whispered in his ear.
“I wanted you to come in my mouth.”
He almost came right then. His cock seemed to expand inside her, and she looked at him, her eyes open wide. “But not yet,” she added. And she began to move.
He let her. Let her do what she wanted, no matter how much he wanted to take over, no matter how desperate he was. She was learning what she wanted, and he was willing to let her, even if he thought it might just possibly kill him.
And finally she began to move, faster, and he put his arms around her, pulling her against him, as he thrust up to meet her plunging hips, and she was breathless, sobbing, crying out, and he was gasping, beyond words, until they both reached it at the same time. She let out a soft, keening howl, and her body clamped down around him, and his last bit of control vanished. He filled her with thrust after thrust, and she held on, until they both shattered.
She was crying when she collapsed against him, a rag doll of a woman, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking she was unhappy. He didn’t have much breath left himself, but he put his hand on the back of her neck and turned her face to his and kissed her, a soft, deep, hungry kiss. And he felt one more contraction ripple through her body.
He left their clothes behind, scattered on the garage floor, kicking the door shut behind him. He carried her upstairs, up to his bed, and lay down with her, wrapping his body tight around her. And for the first time in his life, he slept with a woman.
When Jamie awoke it was morning and she was alone. She hadn’t been alone all night—she knew that. She’d slept with his body wrapped around her, she’d wakened to him inside her. At one point they just lay there and kissed, endlessly. He knew how to kiss. He knew how to do everything.
She was cold, sticky, aching all over. She needed a shower, she needed clean clothes, she needed food. But most of all she needed Dillon.
There was no music pounding up from the garage. It was late morning—she couldn’t believe how long she’d slept. But then, she’d had a very busy twenty-four hours. She climbed out of his bed, taking the sheet with her and wrapping it around her body. She had no idea why she was feeling modest, after last night. Maybe it was because of last night. And earlier this morning.
Damn, she hurt! A hot soak in the claw-footed bathtub would do wonders, though. Since she’d been in Wisconsin she’d taken the fastest possible showers she could, just to make sure she didn’t run into Dillon. At this point, if he walked in on her in the tub, it could prove…interesting.
The bathroom was warm, heat pouring from the air duct on the floor. For once there seemed to be enough hot water, and she filled the tub as full as she could before dropping the sheet and slipping into the blissfully hot water. She let out a little moan of pleasure. How could she feel so battered and so good at the same time?
But she did. She rested her head against the cool edge of the cast-iron tub and closed her eyes, and she could feel a smile forming on her face. He’d told her he could make her scream, and he was right. He hadn’t told her he could make her smile.
When she was ready to get out, she looked around. There was only one towel in the bathroom, and it was still damp. His. She brought it to her face, and she could smell the soap he used, the shampoo. She breathed it in, like a drug, and for the first time she understood why he’d kept her dress. If he sent her away, if she ran away, she’d steal this towel and take it with her. And sleep with it, like the lovesick adolescent she’d always been. And still was.
She wrapped the sheet around her again and headed back to her room. He’d