stopped one step above him and threaded her hands through his cropped blond hair, holding him for her mouth. It was crazy, the way she wanted him. She was slick and hot, nerves tingling with anticipation.
“Here,” she said, and sat down, hiking her skirt to the tops of her thighs.
“No,” he said again, and hoisted her to her feet. “This happens in a bed.”
On the landing she unbuttoned his shirt while he jerked open his cuffs. Desperate to get her hands on his cock, she opened his belt and jeans at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, tugging down boxers and jeans until she could grip it.
“Stop,”
he said. “Do that and this will all be over.”
Possessed by a demon, she turned her back to him. “Unzip me,” she said.
He did. She shrugged. The dress dropped to her feet. Without turning around she proceeded up the stairs in nothing but four-inch heels and lace panties. “Coming?” she said.
“Just admiring the view,” he said.
He caught up with her at the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time by the sound of his bare feet on the wood. Without breaking stride his hands slid over her ribs to cup her breasts, teasing her nipples as they walked. The sensations were so strong she had to brace herself on the doorframe. His hands skimmed down her torso to hook in her panties and urge them down her legs. She stepped out of the lace and her heels, then pulled the duvet to the end of the bed before sprawling back on her elbows.
He’d stripped off his jeans while she prepared the bed, and joined her on the bed, kneeing her thighs apart. While she watched him he rolled a condom down his shaft, then reached for her hands and pinned them to the bed next to her head as he nudged into place.
And waited.
“Daniel,” she said.
“Shh,” he said. His mouth hovered over hers, their lips barely brushing. Tilda felt her eyes close as her awareness shrank to the slight pressure of Daniel’s cock against her slick folds. He was going slowly, so slowly, torturously slowly, and every time she lifted into the pressure he pulled back. With her hands pinned she had no leverage. Trying for some, for anything that would make this happen, she wrapped both legs around his hips and pulled, moving him not one whit.
“Easy,” he said. “Shh. Wait. Feel this.”
She groaned and went limp. When she stopped fighting for what she wanted, the sensation of him stretching her, easing into her half an inch at a time, filled her senses. His fingers, clasped with hers. His chest hair brushing her nipples; the increasing slickness of their skin; the rough but nearly invisible blond stubble on his jaw; the heated, damp caress of his breath against her lips, her cheekbones, her eyelids, her ears.
Then he was finally all the way inside, pelvis pressing against her, abdomen brushing hers with each rapid inhale. “Still with me?”
She opened her eyes. “Of course.”
He shifted the minute distance necessary to rub his shaft against the bundle of nerves inside her. Every muscle in her body tightened, her eyes flew closed, and then he drew out and thrust in, smooth and deep and unhurried. The whole stroke slid over that ache inside, tip to base, and she moaned helplessly.
The pace he set wasn’t hard and fast or slow and deep. No, nothing so contrived. It was simply relentless, and perfectly timed to keep her riding the tight curl of energy. Her face was hot and flushed, her pulse pounding in her throat and cheeks. Someone was whimpering and it couldn’t be her, but it was too high pitched to be Daniel.
He was, she realized at the back of her mind, getting off not on the sex, not on having sex with
her
, but on how sex made her feel, making her lift, tighten, go molten. He wasn’t taking something from her, using her to get off. No, he was exerting an astonishing willpower to own her. This wasn’t as ordinary as
she comes, he comes, find your clothes, and leave.
The friction was indescribable, adding some punch to
“Here,” she said, and sat down, hiking her skirt to the tops of her thighs.
“No,” he said again, and hoisted her to her feet. “This happens in a bed.”
On the landing she unbuttoned his shirt while he jerked open his cuffs. Desperate to get her hands on his cock, she opened his belt and jeans at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, tugging down boxers and jeans until she could grip it.
“Stop,”
he said. “Do that and this will all be over.”
Possessed by a demon, she turned her back to him. “Unzip me,” she said.
He did. She shrugged. The dress dropped to her feet. Without turning around she proceeded up the stairs in nothing but four-inch heels and lace panties. “Coming?” she said.
“Just admiring the view,” he said.
He caught up with her at the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time by the sound of his bare feet on the wood. Without breaking stride his hands slid over her ribs to cup her breasts, teasing her nipples as they walked. The sensations were so strong she had to brace herself on the doorframe. His hands skimmed down her torso to hook in her panties and urge them down her legs. She stepped out of the lace and her heels, then pulled the duvet to the end of the bed before sprawling back on her elbows.
He’d stripped off his jeans while she prepared the bed, and joined her on the bed, kneeing her thighs apart. While she watched him he rolled a condom down his shaft, then reached for her hands and pinned them to the bed next to her head as he nudged into place.
And waited.
“Daniel,” she said.
“Shh,” he said. His mouth hovered over hers, their lips barely brushing. Tilda felt her eyes close as her awareness shrank to the slight pressure of Daniel’s cock against her slick folds. He was going slowly, so slowly, torturously slowly, and every time she lifted into the pressure he pulled back. With her hands pinned she had no leverage. Trying for some, for anything that would make this happen, she wrapped both legs around his hips and pulled, moving him not one whit.
“Easy,” he said. “Shh. Wait. Feel this.”
She groaned and went limp. When she stopped fighting for what she wanted, the sensation of him stretching her, easing into her half an inch at a time, filled her senses. His fingers, clasped with hers. His chest hair brushing her nipples; the increasing slickness of their skin; the rough but nearly invisible blond stubble on his jaw; the heated, damp caress of his breath against her lips, her cheekbones, her eyelids, her ears.
Then he was finally all the way inside, pelvis pressing against her, abdomen brushing hers with each rapid inhale. “Still with me?”
She opened her eyes. “Of course.”
He shifted the minute distance necessary to rub his shaft against the bundle of nerves inside her. Every muscle in her body tightened, her eyes flew closed, and then he drew out and thrust in, smooth and deep and unhurried. The whole stroke slid over that ache inside, tip to base, and she moaned helplessly.
The pace he set wasn’t hard and fast or slow and deep. No, nothing so contrived. It was simply relentless, and perfectly timed to keep her riding the tight curl of energy. Her face was hot and flushed, her pulse pounding in her throat and cheeks. Someone was whimpering and it couldn’t be her, but it was too high pitched to be Daniel.
He was, she realized at the back of her mind, getting off not on the sex, not on having sex with
her
, but on how sex made her feel, making her lift, tighten, go molten. He wasn’t taking something from her, using her to get off. No, he was exerting an astonishing willpower to own her. This wasn’t as ordinary as
she comes, he comes, find your clothes, and leave.
The friction was indescribable, adding some punch to
Similar Books
