Still Lake - Anne Stuart [58]
“I should tell you…” she began, obediently putting her arms around his neck.
“Just tell me whether you want to do this or not,” he said impatiently. “Yes or no?”
She wanted to shove him off her, but for some reason her arms were tight around his neck and her mouth was saying, “Yes.”
He slid his hands under her butt and she could feel him pressing against her, hot and hard and sleek. And then he thrust inside, deep, fast, burying himself inside her, breaking past whatever trace of innocence she still had remaining.
She let out a stifled yelp of pain. She’d forgotten that it would hurt. She’d even assumed her hymen was long gone. Apparently not.
He was frozen, buried deep within her body, and that nice, sensual haze that enveloped Sophie began to fade.
“Shit,” he muttered in her ear. Not the romantic uttering she would have imagined, and she felt him begin to pull away.
“No!” she said, clinging tightly to his neck. “Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t going to.” He kissed her, and she thought she could taste regret on his mouth. “Shit,” he said again. And then he reached down and pulled her legs around him, so that he was deeper, further, harder.
He began to pull out of her, and she almost protested, but then he filled her again. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, his voice thick with strain. “I know how to do this. I have lots of experience.”
Forget tender, romantic musings. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the feel of him inside her, thick and heavy, the surge of his hips against hers, the feel of his beautiful bony shoulders beneath her hands. The heavy, glorious weight of him. The movement, deep and rocking. She wanted to wrap herself around him, dissolve into his skin, lose herself completely, if only for a short while.
Somewhere along the way her shivering had stopped, and she was covered with a film of sweat, slick, sliding against his hard body. The pain wasn’t even a memory, and now she wanted this to last forever, soaring, sailing, faster, deeper, harder. She couldn’t catch her breath, didn’t want to, she just wanted him, more of him. Neverending. Relentless. Forever.
It started slow and hit her with the force of a sledgehammer, a cataclysm of such power she could only hold on to him and let it happen. He went rigid against her, rock hard in her arms, and he probably muttered “oh, shit” again, but she was beyond hearing, lost in some mind-scattered cloud of inexpressible pleasure. She fell back, limp, awash in shimmering sensation, and she knew an odd, faint trace of regret that he’d used a condom. She’d wanted all of him inside her, a total giving, and he’d withheld something.
He collapsed on top of her, heavy, damp with sweat, his heart slamming against hers, his breath rasping in his chest. As the powerful sensations began to ebb, regret took their place. She hadn’t seen him in the dark, hadn’t touched him. She’d lost her virginity in the darkness to an experienced predator, in exchange for a moment of fleeting pleasure.
Well, it was more than a moment, she thought fairly. And pleasure was a pretty tame word for what she’d just experienced. If he just said something sweet to her. Something gentle, something even mildly flattering.
“Shit,” he said, and pushed away from her, rising from the floor.
She could feel the scratch of the rug beneath her back. She could feel the chill returning to her overheated skin. She could feel the worst shame she’d ever felt in her life. Not shame that she’d finally done this. But that he’d walked away from her, cursing.
She heard a door close in the darkness, heard the water running. She didn’t hesitate. She practically sprang to her feet and had to steady herself on a nearby piece of furniture as her legs wobbled beneath her.
She had to get out of there, fast. She didn’t know which of them would be more embarrassed, and she wasn’t about to find out. All she knew was that she had to escape before he said “shit” one more time.
It was getting light outside. She didn’t let the screen door slam. Her nightgown was on the floor of