Page 41 of The Taking of House Westwood

She soaked in the gorgeous body, the angles enhanced by the moonlight that poured through the lone window. From the tree root cords at the base of his neck, to the broad shoulders, and defined abdominals, she wanted to trace every inch of those muscles, feel the power of them beneath her hands. Her eyes moved down, and she brought her hand to her mouth, nibbling on a fingertip. She would not have an easy time accommodating him.

He moved her smock up her body, easing the threadbare fabric over the thrust of her breasts. His breathing quickened as he looked upon her nakedness. His hands took her breasts, tentative at first, then squeezing them firmly, making her moan. He traced the wide brown areolas with shaky fingertips, smiling as her nipples hardened for him. His hand caressed the soft flesh of her belly, the fingers playing with the curls of her sex. He lay upon her once more, his face just inches from hers.

She felt the hard bar of his erection laid upon her thigh, and her sex spasmed. She was sure she could feel a drop of moisture seep from between her labia. She tensed, knowing what was supposed to happen that first time, the pain that would come. Still she wanted this, wanted this to be with him. For him.

“I - it might hurt,” he whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. His eyes gleamed as he gazed down into hers. She was touched that he was worried for her.

If only he knew what she’d already been through.

“Then hurt me, Owen,” she said, her eyes flashing. She was out of control, she knew, but she wanted to be in control of this, in control of something. She drew in a sharp breath, as he entered her, a shallow tentative thrust at first.

“Oh Gods,” he whispered, the muscles of his arms bulging as he held himself over her. She adjusted her hips, her heels pulling him closer, and he pushed further.

“Owen,” she moaned. “More. Slowly.” She was afraid of the pain. She knew her fear was absurd, really, considering what she’d already been subjected to. But this was a different kind of pain, even more intimate.

Her first intimacy — with her Owen.

“Sophie,” he said, his breathing heavier. “Are you ready?”

She closed her eyes, her heart soaring, fear warring with joy at his words. “Owen, please. Love me. Only me.”

He thrust against her, the flesh resisting a moment, then giving way. She cried out, arching her body under him, her nails digging into the flesh of those muscular arms. The pain was sharp, but not nearly as severe as she’d feared.

He pushed further, deeper, until she felt his pubic hair against her mound. His body trembled over hers, his breathing coming hard and fast.

“Owen, please.” She rotated her hips, the hard shaft of his cock moving deeper. She knew she would be sore tomorrow, but she wanted him to move, to take her, to show her what was possible between a man and a woman.

The pace of his thrusts increased. When she looked up at him, he took her mouth with his, the lips and tongue and teeth growing bolder, more demanding. She loved the feel of his passion, the barely leashed power of his body. His thrusts hurt, and she gasped with the effort to accommodate his size. She was crazy to be doing this here, now, but she’d examine just what the Hell was wrong with her later. Now, there was only this.

Two bodies, one.

She’d wanted this more than she’d realized, her sex clamping him harder, despite the pain — or because of it.

“Sophie!” He grunted, his jaw clenched. “Sophie! I — Oh Gods!”

She panted along with him, her eyes half-lidded, loving the contrasting sensations of the sting and the luscious slide of his hard maleness deep inside. His hips bucked against hers as he stroked within her, her breath catching as the broad head bottomed out against the mouth of her womb.

“What about — inside,” he ground out, his thrusting relentless.

Did she want this to lead to that? The logical result of their lust, their love? She cleaved even closer to him, her body a taut bowstring. The pain, the pleasure; the confusion and joy, was one whirling maelstrom within her.

“Owen, no. Wait.” Her voice quavered with the rhythmic impact of his hips.

He sunk to the hilt once more, his whole body shaking. The feel of him so, so deep made her moan.

“Okay.” Exquisite anguish strained his voice. “Not … yet.”

He withdrew from her, and she watched, fascinated and strangely bereft, as his fingers, wet with her virgin’s blood, fisted the long, thick penis once, twice. His deep groan rattled in her chest as he spurted his seed upon her, the limpid streams mingling with the matted hair of her pubis.

She had an insane urge to lick it off of him, to clean his fingers of his semen. She wanted to know what it tasted like; she wondered why she seemed to have turned into an insatiable slut.

Sophie tried to roll over, but his hand stayed her, firm on her hip. “No.”

The glint in his eye, the firm set of his jaw, made the heat rise within her sex all over again. His gaze moved down her body, his big sun-browned hand following. She moaned, the flesh still sensitive as his fingers parted her wet folds, the long digits exploring within her sex, the sting of her sore flesh making her gasp. He felt all around inside, his touch gentle, exploring. He moved down her body, his sweaty musculature delicious against her soft, yielding thighs. She felt his breath on her sex, and she tensed.

“Owen — no. I’m bleeding.” She could feel the flush rise on her chest and neck

How could he want to?

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