Page 23 of Slash
He set her down gently on that rug, her bare feet sinking into the pile. The only light came from the sliver of hall light spilling through the door.
“My rules tonight,” he said, his voice low. “You feel. I take care. That’s your only job. Understood?”
She nodded. He’d take it. His hands went to the hem of her shirt. His knuckles brushed the bare skin of her stomach as he gathered the material, and she shivered violently. He paused, his eyes searching hers in the dim light. “Still okay?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
He pulled the shirt up and over her head, letting it fall silently to the floor. His gaze was a physical caress, warming her skin as he drank in the sight of her in her simple lace bra. There was no rush in his movements, only a reverent thoroughness he wanted her to feel both worshipped and utterly possessed.
He reached behind her, the brush of his fingers against her spine making her jump. The clasp gave way. He didn’t pull the bra off immediately. Instead, he cupped her face, tilting it up to his, and captured her mouth in a deep, searing kiss. It was a kiss designed to unravel her, to make her forget her own name, and it worked. By the time he broke away, she was swaying, her hands fisted in his shirt for balance.
Only then did he gently slip the straps from her shoulders, letting the bra join the shirt on the floor. The cool air, or perhaps the intensity of his unwavering focus, pebbled her skin. He didn’t look away, his dark eyes tracing the lines and curves of her as if committing her to memory. The heat of his gaze was more intimate than any touch, and a soft, broken sound escaped her lips.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below her collarbone. “All this strength, and all this softness. All mine.”
He knelt before her, his hands going to the button of her jeans. He worked it open, then the zipper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and her plain cotton panties, and with painstakingslowness, he drew them both down her legs. He helped her step out of them, each movement deliberate and patient.
Now she stood before him, completely bare, while he remained fully clothed. The power dynamic was clearly defined. He was taking the lead so she could finally, finally let go.
He rose to his full height, his eyes level with hers. “Lie down on the bed, little girl.”
She moved to the bed, laid back against the pillows and watched him as he began to undress. He never took his eyes off her. Every piece of clothing he removed was a revelation of hard, scarred muscle. And when he was finally as naked as she was, he joined her on the bed, not covering her body with his immediately, but lying beside her, propped on an elbow. He began to touch her, not with the frantic need she might have expected, but with practiced patience.
He started with her face, tracing the line of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the bow of her lip. “No more worry here,” he whispered, following the path of his touch with soft kisses.
His hand drifted down her neck, over the frantic pulse at its base. “No more fear here.”
He palmed her breast, his thumb circling her nipple until it was a tight, aching peak. “No more tension here.” He dipped his head and took the peak into his mouth, suckling gently, then with increasing pressure until she was arching off the bed with a gasp.
His hand skimmed down her stomach, over the gentle curve of her hip, and down her thigh. “You hold the world here,” he murmured against her skin, his lips following the same path. “Let me carry it for a while.”
He urged her legs apart and settled between them. He didn’t enter her. Not yet. Instead, he looked down at her.
“Look at me, Nicole,” he commanded softly. “I want to see you. I want to see everything you feel.”
His fingers found her, stroking through her slick heat, circling her clit. Her eyes, which had fluttered shut, flew open and locked with his. The connection was absolute, devastating. He was watching every flicker of pleasure, every shuddering breath, every silent plea that crossed her face. He was memorizing her.
He slid one finger, then two, inside her, a slow, stretching fullness that made her cry out. His thumb continued its lazy, torturous circles as he began to move his hand in a steady rhythm in and out of her.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice rough with his own restraint. “Let go for me. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”
She obeyed him, coming undone, legs shuttering as she screamed out his name in pure joy. She shattered with a broken sob, her back bowing off the bed, her gaze never leaving his. He watched her fall apart as if it was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen.
As the last waves of her climax receded, he withdrew his hand and in one fluid, powerful motion, he sheathed himself fully inside her. She gasped at the sudden fullness, her body clenching around him. He stilled, buried to the hilt, a sheen of sweat on his brow as he fought for control.
“Slash,” she whimpered, her hands clutching his shoulders. “Please. More.”
He began to move then, with long, deep, devastatingly slow strokes. This wasn’t a frantic coupling; it was a claiming. His eyes held hers the entire time. He was giving her everything he’d promised he would with each measured, loving thrust.
He could feel her tightening around him. She was close to her second orgasm. “Look at me, baby. Look at me when you come,” he gritted out.
And she did. Her second climax crashed over her, and her scream was louder than the first, and she cried out his name, herbody convulsing around his. The sight of her pleasure was his undoing. With a guttural groan, he followed her over the edge, his own release pounding through him, his eyes slamming shut for a brief second before they opened again, never fully breaking their connection.
He collapsed beside her, immediately gathering her against him, tucking her head under his chin. Their hearts hammered a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other’s chests. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing.
He held her like that for a long time, his hands stroking her hair, her back, as if soothing her back to herself. He had focused on her, only her, and in doing so, he hoped he had given her a glimpse of that future he’d promised.
CHAPTER 8
