Trace of Fever - Lori Foster [106]
“Like this, right?” Priss laced her arms around his neck, locked her ankles at the small of his back.
“Yeah.” Closing his eyes, Trace tried to go slow, to ease into her. But she was so wet, so hot, and she lifted against him, urging him on. “Yeah,” he said again, and pressed partially into her.
She caught her breath and tensed. He looked at her, but her eyes glittered with desire, not pain. Cupping a hand under her bottom, he lifted her more. Against her mouth, he said, “Tell me if I hurt you.”
She swallowed, nodded. “It’ll hurt if you stop.”
“I won’t.” Hell, he couldn’t. With every inch he sank into her, he lost more control. Her muscles were flinching, clenching, milking him and making him nuts.
“I won’t break, Trace. I promise.”
He groaned, and thrust into her. Squeezed by silky tightness, he withdrew and thrust in again. And again.
Holding on to him, Priss made small sounds of pleasure and surprise, then deeper sounds of excitement.
“You’re…bigger than I expected.”
“God, Priss…” He almost laughed. “You don’t know enough about men to judge my size.”
“I’ve seen plenty of movies, remember?”
Trace put his face in her neck. “Can we talk about that later?”
She tightened around him. “Yes.” And then a few seconds later, “Yes.”
A third time? He lifted up to look at her and saw the flush of her face, how her teeth sank into her bottom lip, the vagueness in her green eyes. Amazing.
“Let go,” Trace ordered softly.
As if the words freed her, Priss softened on a moan. Her heels pressed into the small of his back, her thighs hugged him, her body arched—and she took him with her. The release was mind-blowing, draining him of need, and stripping him of tension. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Priss wasn’t done yet, so he managed to stay with her until her legs fell away from him and she went utterly limp beneath him.
They struggled for breath together, their bodies damp, scents combined.
A gentleman would have moved off her; Trace couldn’t. He didn’t have the strength and, besides, he liked having her like this. It might have only been days, but it felt like he’d waited a lifetime to get her under him.
She proved she felt the same when she roused herself enough to kiss his sweaty shoulder, then flopped back, arms and legs sprawled out like a starfish. She looked suspiciously close to sleep.
Tenderness left Trace smiling, when he hadn’t thought he had the energy for that. Not kissing her proved impossible, so he tipped up her face and brushed his mouth over hers.
Her eyes didn’t open, but she said, “If you’re thinking of doing anything more, I swear, I need a nap first.”
The reminder of her exhaustion brought home all the trouble waiting for them. Murray would hit the roof when he discovered Helene’s perfidy—and it was anyone’s guess who would be the recipient of his rage. How that’d affect Priss…he just didn’t know.
But he wouldn’t take any chances on anything happening to her. From here on, she was out of the picture. Trace didn’t care what conclusion Murray came to, but Priss wouldn’t see him again.
With Priss out of the way, he could handle Murray. He could handle Helene, too.
Hell, he could handle just about anything…except losing her.
PRISS WOKE SLOWLY. Unfamiliar aches reminded her of where she was, what she’d done and whose hairy leg had her pinned in place.
Trace.
She smiled without opening her eyes. Through the long night, Trace had awakened her twice more. He’d taken her over the side of the bed, his hands holding her breasts, his mouth on her shoulder while he went so deep that she’d felt wild.
Later he’d lain on his back, her riding him, and he’d watched her intently while she came. It was both unsettling and intimate and very exciting. Seconds after she collapsed over him, he’d held her tight and gained his own release.
She was now sore in places she’d never noticed or thought about. She was also so content that it was hard to remember she had