Page 183 of Branded
I wasn’t focused on that.
Because he was hard and deep and in. Because he was moving in a way that had my hips thrusting up to meet his, both of our bodies focused on a rhythm that would send us into the best kind of oblivion.
Because his lips were finding mine, and his tongue was darting into my mouth.
Because one hand was taking his weight, and the other was cupping one breast.
Because then that one hand slipped between us and found my clit.
Because that touch had me gasping, breaking the kiss, and bucking against him, my orgasm barreling down on him, the pleasure of it threatening to shatter me to pieces.
He arched, sucking at my nipple, hips still working, thumb still on me, and?—
It hit with an impact that stole my breath.
A maelstrom of pleasure firing through my nerves, burning through my senses.
His name on my lips.
His body working mine, wringing every drop of pleasure before he began to lose his rhythm, before I managed to peel my lids open enough to watch his orgasm crash into him, take him down harder than a check on the ice.
It was beautiful watching that pleasure my body had given him, taking him down.
It was beautiful the way he kissed me after he’d finished.
It was beautiful how he rolled us and tucked me into his side, calloused fingers trailing over my naked skin.
And that was when I felt it.
The door in the basement shattered…and a dark, frightening demon slid out of the shadows and stepped into the light.
Nineteen
Raph
I felt Beth slip from the bed, the blankets shifting ever so slightly as she moved, and I wondered how in the fuck to play this.
Because we had made love, and it was the best sex of my life, and I’d been lying there in the throes of all that goodness, reliving every moment and adding things to my mental sex list left and right and she’d gotten increasingly tense against me.
Until I’d snapped out of the post-orgasm haze, and I’d started paying attention.
I knew it had been a bit for her and her body had changed, and she had lots of hormones flowing through her and we’d been dancing around this for a while, but when we’d moved, we moved fast. I’d thought she’d needed gentling, so I’d cuddled her closer, gentled my touches. I’d kissed her hair, murmured soft words. And all the while, she’d turned into a fucking statue against me.
Finally, I’d asked her if she was okay.
And she’d lied, faked the fakest yawn I’d ever heard in my life (and Monica had been party to numerous fake yawns, feigning fatigue like it was an Olympic sport), and had curled into me saying, “I’m just tired.”
It was late.
Really late.
She was growing two babies after a stressful week.
She probably was tired.
But that wasn’t what had her playing a statue after the best sex of my life, after we’d both come twice, after we’d shared something in this bed, and it was less to do with orgasms and more to do with actual feelings that were blooming.
At least in me.
