Page 75 of Guilty as Sin
She laughed, and then she winced. “Ow. Yeah. Sorry. How nasty was that?”
“Pretty bloody nasty. Pretty bloody wonderful.”
She put her palm right on his groin. “Oh, yeah. You know what would be even better?”
“You’re joking.”
“Well, no.” She had a hand under his T-shirt, was stroking up his chest. “I love your body. Take this off and let me touch it. I want to feel you.”
He spared a thought for what a gentleman would do, and then he kicked the gentleman to the curb. He had his shirt off in two seconds, and his jeans off two seconds after that. And when she trailed that one good hand up over his chest, circled delicately around a nipple, then brushed her palm over it? He thought he’d lose it right there.
“If you don’t touch me,” he said, “I’m going to die.” He meant it, too.
She didn’t smile, because it hurt. But there was so much satisfaction in those wicked brown eyes when she trailed her hand down the line of hair from his navel, closed her fingers around him, and squeezed just hard enough.
“Remind me to heal up,” she said, “so I can take this in my mouth.”
“Oh, God.” He had his eyes closed, and then he opened them again, because he needed to see her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me. Be gentle, and you won’t hurt.”
He got a hand around her left thigh and shoved it carefully up, so her legs parted more, and she moaned. He swore, put his right hand flat on the mattress, and pushed inside her.
Hot. Tight. Wet. He held himself off her, both palms flat on the bed and his triceps rigid, shut his eyes again, and breathed. He needed a moment. But she was tightening even more around him, contracting and releasing, and he couldn’t help it. He had to move.
Keeping it slow, keeping it gentle was about the hardest thing he’d ever done. He set his jaw and did it, and still, every stroke took him higher. He wanted to plunge. He wanted to go hard and deep. And he couldn’t.
She was holding still, and he knew why. Moving would hurt. Her chest was rising and falling with her breath, and he asked, “All… right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Oh, that feels good. Oh, that feels…” Her hips were moving just a little. Just enough. “Keep doing that. Just like that. Nice and slow. Please.”
He did. It was torture, and it was bliss. She was rocking, and he was still holding back. He said, “Talk to me. Tell me what you like.”
She said, “I want it… every way. I want you to take me over a chair. Against the wall. On my hands and knees. I want you to hold my head and . . I want to… I want you to tell me. Please, Jace. Tell me.”
So he did. He told her everything he couldn’t do to her now, everything he was going to do to her later. She wanted it dirty? That was good, because he wanted everything there was. And by the time he’d finished telling her, she was gasping, contracting around him, her spasms gripping him hard, and he was swearing again.
Going higher. Going deep.
And, finally… letting go.
Oh, yeah.
Oh.
Yeah.
She said, when he’d rolled to his back and she could talk again, “Pain pills have a… lot to answer for.”
“I reckon,” he said, “that I’ve got the right sister. Bloodyhell.” He was out of breath, too.
“Ha. That’s me laughing, except I can’t.”
“Mm. Want another one? Tablet, I mean, because I’m not giving you another orgasm. Not tempting fate like that again.”
“Oh, I think that could be a very bad idea. On both counts. Would you help me get dressed?”
“Yeah. Help you clean up, too. One sec.” He got out of bed, came back with a warm washcloth, cleaned her off with a touch as tender as those words of his hadn’t been, and got her dressed. Which hurt, but her body was definitely relaxed, and it definitely felt better. “And I know,” he said, “I should’ve used a condom. Put it that you drove it out of my head. I’ve never wanted it that badly in my life.”
