Micah - Laurell K. Hamilton [27]
He drew himself out of me, and it rubbed, because orgasm was tightening me around him, trying to hold on to all of him as he pulled back out. He began to shove himself inside again as far and hard as the tightness would let him. He fought his way in and out, while I writhed and screamed. I had to hold on to something. My hands found his shoulders, his arms, and drew blood down them. Too much pleasure, too many sensations, as if all that pleasure spilled out of me in the blood that ran down his body.
His voice came gasping. “Feed the ardeur soon, Anita, please. God, soon. I’m not going to last much longer.” I’d forgotten what we were doing. I’d forgotten about the ardeur. I’d forgotten everything but the sex. It took only a thought, and the ardeur was suddenly there. But I was too far gone in orgasm, pleasure, our bodies. Always before, the ardeur had felt like more, like its own presence, but now it was only another part of the sex. It was like an extra layer of heat added to a bonfire that was already burning down the room.
It tore sounds from my throat, raked my nails down Micah’s back, and only then did I realize he was on top of me, not above me, but pressed on top of me in a more standard missionary position. I hadn’t remembered when he changed position.
The ardeur had opened me to him, and he was finally able to shove himself in and out of me, not fighting my body now but sliding in and out. He came to the end of me before his thrust was finished, but there was no more of me, nowhere else for him to go. He raised up on his arms for a moment so I could gaze down my body at the meat of him going inside me, over and over and over, and the orgasm was almost, almost, almost. I could feel his body changing rhythm, feel that he was close. The ardeur couldn’t feed off of Micah until he orgasmed. He was too dominant, too controlled; only orgasm let his shields down enough to be food for me.
He cried out above me, his hips doing one last thrust that brought me screaming off the bed, bowing my back, closing my eyes. I screamed for him a long time after he had finished, and he lay on top of me, trying to relearn how to breathe. I screamed and writhed underneath him, still caught in the aftershocks of what we’d done.
When he could move, he pulled out of me, and that made me writhe again, but almost as soon as he was out the ache began. That the endorphins had begun to fade that fast meant I’d be sore later. But it was the kind of sore I didn’t mind. The kind of sore that would be like a keepsake, that I could take out and look at and remember what we’d done. I’d remember the pleasure of it with every ache between my legs.
Micah lay oddly, half on his stomach, half on his side. The arm that was toward me was bleeding. He’d have his own aches and pains to remember this by. He moved, propping himself up on his elbows, and I saw his back.
I gasped and said, “Jesus, Micah, I’m sorry.”
He winced. “The nails don’t usually hurt this soon after great sex.”
I nodded. “When the endorphins go quick, you know you’re hurt.” His back looked like he’d been attacked by something with more claws than I had.
“Are you hurting?” he asked.
“A little ache.”
He gave me serious eyes. “When I drew out, there was blood. Not much, but some.”
“We’ve had color before,” I said.
“Yeah, but that’s usually near your period. This isn’t.” His face was serious again. That shadow of old memories, old girlfriends