Page 11 of A Love to Remember
On second “best” he drove his tongue inside her—and she came up off the bed.
Soon Philip’s mind was empty of anything but the sounds of Rose’s pleasure. He licked and sucked, laved and stroked, pressing first one, then two fingers inside her. As her inner lips tightened her cries grew in frequency and volume. Soon she was shaking, her legs gripping his head, her hands thrust deep into his hair, one moment tugging him away, the next pushing him closer. He began to suck and nibble and lick in earnest. On a muffled scream, Rose’s body went as taut as a strung wire, and he lapped at her release.
She was still trembling as he kissed his way back up her body, angled his head, and plunged his tongue into her mouth. She was soft and welcoming and all his. He fought the need to drive his throbbing erection deep into her hot, wet body.
Not yet; he’d come too soon.
He gained some relief as he claimed her lips and her tongue, seized her awareness and anchored it in the kiss. He wanted to take her to heaven again—with him, so they could take their pleasure together.
Still locked in the kiss, he lowered his weight to her, careful not to crush her. In response, Rose lifted her legs to wrap around his hips, drawing him to her. He moved slowly, pushing his hard member through her slick folds.
God, it felt so good.
With his free hand, he started to push her arms above her head. But before he could pin them down she slid her hands into his hair, fingers spearing through the thick locks and clenching, clinging, holding him to the kiss. She turned the tables so masterfully, kissed him so wantonly, that he lost track of his mind.
When she compounded her conquest by arching against him, he was fit to burst, and feeling her bare breasts pressed against his chest—so tempting, so alluring—he could not tease her much longer before he lost control.
He wisely surrendered to his instincts.
Boldly, he closed his free hand about one pert breast and drank down her instinctive gasp. But she got her revenge when her small hand slipped between their bodies and wrapped around his pulsing member.
This time it was he who groaned into the silence. He had forgotten that she knew his body as well as he knew hers. She drove him wild. Seduced his senses. Made him hers in a way that left him not merely eager, but hungry for more. So hungry he’d keep coming back, night after night, for however long the magic between them lasted. And it had lasted far longer than he’d ever imagined.
He sent his hand gliding over her body, tracing curves, relearning dips and hollows.
Sweat beaded on his brow. Her sliding hand was magic, so good he had to take charge before she ruined his plan.
He drew back and she understood him perfectly, guiding him to her wet, tight entrance. With a groan that felt as if it came from his soul, he sank into her heat.
They stilled, reveling in the perfection of their joined bodies. He was braced above her, lost in the slow, gentle stroke of her fingers through his hair.
For long moments, eyes closed, he simply savored. If he’d been the King of the Beasts he’d have purred, not roared.
Only Rose could tame him. Only Rose could silence the demons driving him. Only Rose brought him this intensity of pleasure.
She shifted to press even closer. He wrestled her hands to anchor them beside her head. He needed to take control. Needed her to know the pleasure he felt when she was in his arms.
He leaned down. Their lips met—and, as always, they were in perfect accord. He began to thrust and, sensing his mood, she met and matched his rhythm. It was as if their entire beings—mind, body, and senses—revolved entirely about the other. He could have died right then and been contented.
He wanted these sensations to last as long as possible, but desire flared, rich and hot and luscious between them. He withdrew and thrust in again, and his Rose matched his rhythm, caught it, and drummed it back to him until the world spun in a wild dance around them.
Making love with Rose was never the same dance twice. Each time he learned more about her. This time, when he ground against her mound, her legs tightened at his hips and she gave two little gasps. How was it that after two years he still could not get enough of her? How could it be that each time they were together he lost a little more of his heart to her?
The tempo escalated, and they raced together—hearts thundering, lungs laboring, will, intent, and focus all locked unrelentingly on reaching the shining peak.
Soon Philip lost himself in the primal drive, the compulsive friction and exquisite sensations of having her body respond to his. His breathing turned harsh and ragged, the world faded away, and—blind with desperation, arms braced, head hanging—he plundered, finally taking for himself, seeing to his own need.
Dimly, in the distance, he heard Rose scream, felt her body arch up beneath him, her nails sink into his arms. Then, over everything else, the powerful contractions of her sheath told of her unraveling. She tumbled from the peak in the same moment as he leaped toward it in triumph, a roar ripping from him as he pulled free of her body and let his release shudder through him.
They clung to each other as his seed soaked the sheets. The tumultuous sensations caught him, tossing and hurling him like a ship lost on a stormy sea, like a man drowning in pleasure.
Her heart thundered under his ear. Her skin slick with heat and him. She was his perfect, beautiful Rose, and he would never feel like this with any other woman. If he’d been a praying man, he would have prayed that their world would remain as it was. That society would leave them alone. That no one would hurt her again—least of all him.
“Am I crushing you?”
Rose’s answer was simply to wrap her arms around him and hold him even closer. Even tighter.
“I love the weight of you—the feel of you atop me.” She stretched and yawned. “There is nothing more perfect.”
