The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [46]
His fingers were on her, her scent swamping him. He managed to focus in that moment on her face. Her eyes were the blazing blue of a stormy summer day. Her lips were parted, damp from kissing him. Her breasts were heaving.
And she whispered, arching up to him, “Spenser.”
He nearly went over the edge just looking at her, just hearing her say his name like that. He gritted his teeth, lifted her hips, and came into her hard, so deep he thought he would die from the power of it. Her arms were tight around him, but he had enough sense, enough experience, to pull out of her, breathing so hard he thought his heart would burst from his chest, and caress her with his fingers. He was staring down at his fingers, at her, his look so intense, so filled with the pleasure of it, that in a minute, no more, she yelled out his name, heaving against his fingers, and he watched her face in those precious moments, her pleasure tearing through him as well through her. He came into her again, deep and hard, wondering how he had survived all these years without her, and soon, too soon, it was over, and he knew he’d given his all, there was nothing else in him, and he was content. They were pressed tightly together, panting, and he was still kissing her, unable to stop.
He was still breathing hard, his breath hot in her mouth, and she whispered even as she licked his chin, “I don’t believe this.”
He reared up over her, balanced himself on his elbows, and said, “This isn’t what I am used to, either. No, that is ridiculous. Of course I am used to this, it is just that something has happened, something—” He stopped talking, just stared down at her, and frowned. He was also still deep inside her. He looked to be in pain. “Oh, Helen,” he said, and moved, arching his back with the instant power of it. “My God, Helen.” And he began moving again, deeply, and then, suddenly, he pulled out of her, lifted her hips, and gave her his mouth.
Helen arched and twisted as if she’d been shot. He held her firmly until she gave it up, yelled his name, and collapsed even as he came into her again.
“No,” he said, panting as if he had just run all the way from Court Hammering, “I don’t believe this. A man doesn’t do this every three seconds. It is madness. I will topple into an early grave. No, I must control myself. No, Helen, don’t you dare move. Oh, no, it is too much.”
“It was at least three minutes,” she said. She didn’t move. Actually, she doubted she could move if this roof fell in on her. She was sprawled beneath him, pinned down by him, and she clasped her hands around his neck and brought his mouth back down to hers.
12
AT LEAST TEN MINUTES passed this time before he was once again moving deeply in her, more easily now, but soon enough it quickened, and he was a madman once again, his mind splintered, all his focus on her and how he couldn’t get enough of her or get deep enough inside her. He wanted to possess her, to brand her, to imprint her, it was that simple, that final. He caught her cries in his mouth, felt her nails digging into his back, and climaxed as wildly as he had the first time.
“I will die now,” he announced to the silent, small room, his hot breath in her left ear. Her hair was tangled around her face, over her shoulders, her mouth red and swollen, her nightgown bunched up about her breasts. He was still inside her, but not so much now—after all, a man had to retreat sooner or later.
It was definitely later.
“Yes,” she said, “I will, too.” The sound of her frantic heartbeat was not so loud now in her ears. As for his heartbeat, it pounded deep, steady thuds against her breast. She said, her voice both surprised and bewildered, “I never imagined there could be anything like this. I have read many different books, looked at many different drawings. Never was there anything written or drawn that contemplated what you have just done to me so many times in so few minutes.”
“You mean what you and I have just done together,” he said. “I promise you that I could not have done this without you.” He sounded as