Page 31 of Inarticulate

He pulled back and met her gaze, silently giving her permission to go further.

“You’re just going to watch?”

He didn’t move, didn’t even change his expression. All she received was a lazy blink of those gunmetal eyes.

“Fine. Be a spectator. I’ll unwrap my present by myself.”

She lowered her attention to his waistband as his chest convulsed with laughter. Starving her,tormentingher, wasn’t nice. He’d soon learn from his mistakes.

The clink of his belt mingled with the sound of labored breathing. She undid the button at the top of his jeans, lowered the zipper, and froze.

“Holy…” He didn’t wear underwear. At least not today. The bulge he’d been hiding stood proud, staring at her. Her throat dried to the point of pain. Her desire for him grew uncontrollable. It had to be pheromones or poor air ventilation.

Something.

Anything.

The delirious need wasn’t normal. Not for her.

She tugged his pants in a frantic rush, her robe gaping before him, and left his waistband to stand in the middle of his muscled thighs. There wasn’t a hair, freckle or scar on this man that wasn’t perfectly situated. He was flawless. A picture of masculine perfection.

If only he could…

She shook away the selfish thought and peered up at him. His eyes were dark and full of male pride as he leaned to the side and grabbed a condom from his lowered pocket. He didn’t readjust his pants, didn’t even move them an inch from where she left them. He kept himself on display, his cock standing proud, the thick veins pulsing along his shaft.

He sheathed himself with an unshaking grip. She knew he was watching her, seeing her fascination and desire, and still she couldn’t drag her gaze away from his hands and the way he worked his length.

The men she’d slept with had never been so blatant. They didn’t protest if she was in a frumpy mood and asked for the lights to be switched off. They weren’t proud of their bodies like Keenan was confident with his. This man made sex seem like a natural progression for two strangers. There was no shame or trepidation. It was logical. Even essential.

She bit her lip at the unfamiliar reassurance and felt her pussy clench, preparing itself for the necessary stretch of muscles needed to accommodate him.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyed the bed, then looked back at her in question.

No.She shook her head. She wanted him here, on the desk, with her fingers in his hair and his hands palming her ass.

He inched closer, his legs pressing into hers, and nudged her thighs apart with his knee. His steely focus peered down at her as his rough hands gripped her hips and lifted, placing the curve of her bottom on the flimsy wood.

He was close, his cock almost brushing her entrance, when his palm came to land on her sternum. He seared her, branding her flesh as he trailed his touch through her cleavage, to one shoulder, then the other, pushing her robe off.

The fluffy material pooled at her back, comforting her in her nudity. There was still no shame. There couldn’t be. Not when he cherished her with the appreciation in his eyes.

He gripped the base of his shaft and when he lowered his focus, she was compelled to follow, all the way down to where the head of his cock was poised at her pussy. He trailed himself back and forth, back and forth, sliding himself through the slickness of her arousal.

Every nerve inside her was thrumming. Every heartbeat was labored. He knew what he was doing by making her wait. He was well aware she was delirious with need, and when she was sane again she’d repay the favor. But until then, she’d continue to pant into the silence and pray for the sweet bliss of orgasm.

He rested the tip of his cock inside her and grabbed her hip tight.

She was poised at the top of the rollercoaster, holding her breath for the steep descent. He gripped her chin in his free hand, and stared deep into her eyes. There was a wealth of communication between them. She didn’t need his voice; she could already hear it in her mind. His desire was screaming at her, and his passion whispered in a delirious chant.

Then he plunged deep inside and took her lips in a harsh kiss, shattering her with sensory overload. Whimpers pulled from the back of her throat. She wanted to give him silence, but there was no control over the needy sounds. She was a victim of passion. A prisoner to mindlessness.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and held tight. With each thrust, he devoured her mouth, kissing the oxygen from her lungs. Still, she couldn’t get enough. She doubted she ever would. He was too much—too much passion, too much confidence. He enslaved her with a mere glance and she never wanted to be set free.

She encircled his waist with her legs and groaned at how he sank deeper. His growl returned, the carnal sound making her shudder. He pulled back and watched the way he plunged inside her. She couldn’t follow his focus this time. Her pussy was already tightening with the prelude to orgasm and she wasn’t ready for this to end yet.

Instead, she closed her eyes, let her head fall back, and relaxed into his supremacy. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her breasts. Every inch of her skin was tattooed by his lips.

“Keenan…”

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