Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [112]
Capturing her wrists, he traced his thumbs in maddening circles on her palms, causing her nerve endings to tingle. Her mind cast back to when they’d met and he introduced himself. He’d done the same thing, marking her. Branding her. He began to rock, slow-dancing in the dark to the beautiful words. Her whole being burned with the consuming arousal. She soaked up every marvel of the magic his body worked on hers as they swayed, touching, brushing, compelled to him as if he were a magnet.
“‘But I’m lost for words . . . when I hold you close . . . because you take my breath . . . away.’” He sang the words, then he nuzzled her temple.
“You’re speaking,” she teased.
“Hush, wench. I’m singing.”
Releasing her wrists, he placed his hands on her hips then circled her waist until his thumbs and forefingers released the snap on her jeans. Sliding inside, his strong fingers gave her hips a squeeze. She felt the faint ripple of surprise shudder through his muscles as he recognized his hands were touching flesh and only a little scrap of her thong.
He growled. “You wicked, wicked woman.”
She looped an arm around his neck and arched to him. He leisurely pushed the jeans off her hips, down her thighs, finally leaving her to kick out of them, while he filled his hands with the globes of her derrière. She nipped his lower chin, then fussed, “You’re speaking again. You said no words.”
Teeth flashing in a feral smile, he jerked her against him. Taking a step, he lifted and balanced her on the edge of the counter between the living room and the kitchen, leaving her legs dangling. Her arms tightened about his neck and held on.
Taking hold of her long braid, he loosened it about her shoulders. With a smile, he fisted his hands in the heavy tresses and forced her head back, their eyes locking. Not about to let him control this beautiful passion, she locked her legs about his hips and dragged him to her, rocking against his groin. He kissed the strong column of her neck, fed on her fey essence, which she hoped would brand his soul.
His hands palmed her breast, squeezing, feeling the pebbled nipples through her thin muscle T-shirt. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness to where she saw his face clearly in the night-light from the kitchen; beautiful in his feral beauty, he was a pagan fire god come to burn her heart, her body, her soul.
She jerked in shock as he grabbed the front of her T-shirt and ripped it down the middle. He paused for a moment, just staring at her full breasts, areolas ruched against the caress of the cool air. Letting him know her arousal matched his, her chest rose and fell in short breaths lifting them, aching for his touch.
The passion flared bright, but with Mike Duncan’s haunting voice flowing around them, through them this was more than just lust. This was the true beauty of their bonding. So much more. Need shuddered through her muscles. And not merely the need to have him inside her body, but to be able to speak all the words of how deeply she loved him.
He lightly dragged the back of his knuckle over that sensitized pearl at the apex of her female core, distracting her from thoughts. Asha nearly bucked off the counter in response. With a deliberateness that set her teeth on edge, he dragged her to the very rim of the counter. He pushed her panties aside; the rasp of his zipper followed. Then he was inside her, holding her rigidly. He set a rhythm so unhurried—his withdrawing, his becoming a part of her again—that she sighed in bliss, in agony.
The hot explosion rolled through her blood, slamming into her brain.
“‘Cause she takes my breath away.’” Jago gasped in near anguish, as he followed her into a release that fused their souls as one.
A tapping on the patio door came at the crack of dawn. Jago wanted to ignore it; Asha and he had barely been asleep for an hour.