Page 92 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
She was burning, almost as hot as he; his skin was like a brand wherever she touched, sinking into her senses. She could feel urgency building in them both, in the tension in their muscles, in the desperation driving each caress and in their fractured breaths, yet still they battled, waging a sensual war of sorts, neither willing to surrender even though both were reaching the limit of what they could withstand… They were racing flat out toward that threshold beyond which passion wouldn’t allow them to hold back.
He reached that breaking point first.
A guttural sound escaped him, then he swung around and backed her against the bed. The high mattress met her thighs.
His arms eased from around her, but instead of gripping her waist and lifting her—either to the bed or against him—he closed both hands in the open collar of her chemise. The eyes that met hers were burning gold. Then he ripped.
In one violent move, he stripped the fine garment from her.
Cool air washed over her flushed skin, and she rejoiced.
Dragging in a shallow breath, she reached for his trousers, still hanging open from his hips.
Her fingertips had barely touched the material when he caught her shoulders and spun her to face the bed.
She caught only a glimpse of his face, of his eyes, as she turned, but what burned there was so powerful, so passionately alive, she lost what little breath she’d managed to catch.
Then his hand pressed heavily between her shoulder blades, and she had no choice but to bend over the bed.
Turning her head to one side, she tried to peek through the fall of her hair, tried to reach back, but he caught her hands, anchored them in one of his in the small of her back, and leaned enough of his weight on that hand to keep her in place.
Then with his feet, he pushed hers apart, and touched her.
He caressed the bare globes of her bottom, then he dipped his long fingers into the hollow beneath.
He found the slick wetness between her thighs, spread it over her sensitive lips, tracing and caressing. He found her entrance and circled it with one broad fingertip, then he pressed his fist between her thighs and thrust that finger into her, as deeply as he could.
She squirmed, but he held her down.
He stroked, and she panted.
Then he added a second finger to the first; she moaned as he slid both fingers deep.
She could feel his hand flexing between her thighs as he worked his fingers in and out of her sheath. Gasping, burning, she rolled her hips, riding the repetitive penetrations.
Her lids fell. She caught her lower lip between her teeth in an attempt to hold back the scream she knew would come…
The nameless peak of passion had risen before her and she was almost at its lip—teetering on the brink of ecstasy—when he abruptly drew his fingers from her.
Before her raging senses did more than register that fact, he’d released her hands and taken her hips in an unforgiving grip, then with one long thrust, he drove into her to the hilt.
Her scream was forced from her lungs and half muffled by the comforter. Passion sizzled down her veins, and she clamped tightly about him.
As he rode her. Through the moment of unraveling control—through that first surrender.
And straight on into the next.
She hadn’t thought the peak could get any higher, but it could—it did. He made it so. Made her nerves unravel further yet, made her senses unaware of anything beyond the earthy evidence of their joining—the slap of his belly against her bottom, the brush of his balls between her thighs, the hard grip of his fingers anchoring her before him, the repetitive push as he filled her and the slide of her cheek against the silk of her comforter, the scent of her arousal and his, the weak, panting breaths that fell from her lips, and the unrelenting heat that had her writhing on the bed.
She didn’t think she could reach the pinnacle, not a second time—not so soon. But he drove her up and over, thrusting deep and rolling his hips, then pushing deeper yet, and she screamed again as blinding ecstasy took her and frazzled every last nerve.
She was boneless, utterly boneless, but as he withdrew from her, she realized that he hadn’t yet sought his release.
Quite deliberately, she assumed, and wondered. Waited.
She heard him dispense with his shoes and remaining clothes. Then he scooped her up, lifted her against his chest, and crawled onto the bed.
He laid her down with the huge mound of pillows at her back; that left her half sitting, but that seemed to be his intention as he followed her down. Settling his hips between her thighs, he planted an elbow beside her shoulder, angling his chest so he could look at her—at her body lying supine beneath his.
