The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [59]
She licked her lips as if parched, eyes on his surging cock. “Can you do it harder?”
“Oh, yes.” He lowered his body, braced a hand on either side of her ribs and gave her what she wanted. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he felt her tighten as gliding turned to pounding. The scent of their bodies, the slap of his hips on the backs of her soft thighs—it was a drug invading his bloodstream. Eight years since he’d last been like this with anyone yet he couldn’t imagine being any other way, now.
Fallon gasped. The fingers not touching her clit raked at his skin, frantic. She unraveled before him.
“Good…”
“More.”
He increased the length of his thrusts, leaving her warmth only to plunge deep, right to the base, again and again. As Max’s pleasure grew, reality slipped further and further away. He heard his own moans as if they belonged to some other man, some beast.
When Fallon came her body held him, tight and possessive, and a voice like an angel ascending unfurled from her lungs. If it hadn’t been for the rubber dulling the sensation, Max would have joined her—would have beaten her to the punch. As her body stilled and her cry died away he leaned back again, thrusting hard. His cock hurt, desperate for release, frustrated by the condom. He pulled out, stripped it off and stroked himself with a tight fist, frenetic with need.
Fallon whispered his name again and he saw through half-lidded eyes the hungry way she watched him. He came undone.
Lost in the sounds of his pleasure and the waves of ecstasy ripping through him, he released in hot slashes across her soft belly. He saw her fingers touch his come, rubbing it against her skin in a small circle as he gave her more. When the spasms finally subsided, Max felt close to fainting.
He collapsed beside her, wrapping them together into a tangle of limp limbs. For a long time he was aware of nothing apart from their two hearts beating.
As the moments became minutes, he reclaimed his sanity. Above them the sky had grown dark. Between them the atmosphere was warm and moist and deeply, achingly familiar.
“I have to tell you something,” Fallon said at length in a dreamy voice, lips moving against his temple.
“Oh yes?” He traced her spine with his fingertips.
“I looked through your sketchbook a couple weeks ago. At those drawings. The ones I didn’t pose for,” she said pointedly.
He smiled, hoping she was about to turn disapproving on him again. “Oh?”
“They’re…they’re quite beautiful.”
“Indeed? I wondered if perhaps you were about to call me a pervert.”
“Nah. Not now. You’ve grown on me.”
“Then I shall refrain from calling you a snoop.” He cleared his throat, trying to coax himself back to lucidity. “Dear God.”
“Good?”
He grinned, blinking up at the evening’s first stars. “I can’t tell you how good.”
“Welcome back.”
“Back among the common fornicators,” he said in an unctuous voice and pulled her closer. “I so often call you an angel, but really you are a temptress. Delilah.”
She smirked. “No one’s ever accused me of corrupting them before.”
He grinned and made a luxurious, happy sound before burying his face against her neck.
Fallon pulled away a few minutes later, extracting herself from his sweaty arms and legs and the comforter, the octopus of sexual conquest. “I need a glass of water,” she said quietly and let him flop over in satisfied delirium. Max fell asleep immediately.
Fallon found a mug in the near-dark of the kitchen and filled it. She wandered to the rear windows and stared out over the back lawn, tall grass bathed in the weak, early moonlight. The broken statues in the garden glowed like opal, eerie if not for their familiarity. It was so quiet she could hear Max’s deep breathing above her, the padding of the cat’s feet as it made its evening rounds, doing whatever it was it did when the humans were preoccupied.
She refilled the cup and crept back up the steps. For a long time she stood beside the bed, gazing down at Max’s body beneath the skylight,