Page 90 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
He freed himself from his jeans, leaned over and gathered both her wrists in one of his hands, pressed her arms back over her head so they were pinned against the piano, wrapped an arm beneath and around her waist, and, without preliminaries or a single word, shoved deep inside her.
She arched and cried out. He was hard and hot inside her—so hot—
He growled something unintelligible next to her ear, a curse or a garbled plea. It almost sounded like mine.
He thrust into her again, and again, and again. His face was pressed against her neck, his heated breath brushed over her skin, his body burned with that unnatural heat. He filled her, stretched her, held her locked in place against him with his arm like an iron band around her waist. She moaned his name and he stilled for a moment, breathing raggedly, trying, it seemed, to slow himself, or contain himself, but she didn’t want that—so she flexed her hips and took him deeper.
“Don’t stop,” she begged. “Don’t slow down. Please, Christian, don’t stop.”
He released her wrists and wrapped his hands around her waist. He reared up and pulled her right to the edge of the piano so her bottom hung off.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice still that strange, gravelly whisper. “Say my name.”
He slid one of her legs up and hooked her ankle over his shoulder, and simultaneously pressed forward, deeper inside her, so deep it made her shudder. Her eyes slid shut.
“Christian!”
He slid almost all the way out, then slammed back inside her. A shockwave of pleasure tore through her; she shivered and groaned.
“Again.”
Now his hands were on her breasts, roughly pinching her nipples, sending spikes of pleasure straight down between her legs. His mouth quickly followed his fingers and she felt his tongue, hot and wet, sucking, incredibly wonderful, then pain as his teeth fastened around one sensitive nipple. She cried out and he gentled a bit, sucking again, still greedy and hungry.
“Say it again, Ember!”
His words were a rough command, muffled against her breast. She dug her fingers into his hair, whimpering. When she felt the sting of his teeth again, she gasped his name and he snarled his approval.
“Fuck, I love that—I love my name on your lips.”
His hands against her skin were strong and sure, roaming everywhere as he pumped into her. She felt as if she were being consumed, devoured—possessed.
She opened her eyes and saw him there above her, drenched in moonlight, his eyes shining clear and lucid green past the shadows over his face. His shirt was still on and she wanted it off; she wanted to see all of him.
“Take it off,” she panted, tugging at the material. He complied with swift, brutal precision, tearing it off exactly how he’d torn her own shirt off. Buttons popped and went flying as he yanked it apart and tossed it to the floor; she had a moment to admire him, hard, muscular, and beautiful, before he leaned over and took her mouth. He kissed her with vicious intensity, his tongue thrusting in time with his hips, the heat of his body burning her chest and stomach.
Then his mouth was gone, he withdrew, and he flipped her over so quickly she gasped in shock. Her belly and breasts were pressed flat against the cool, slick surface of the piano.
“On your toes,” he hissed, and fisted a hand into her hair. He pulled her hips back with his other hand so her back was arched and her bottom stuck out. She complied without thought, eager to have him inside her again, and was rewarded instantly as he slid between her legs and buried himself as deep as he could go.
Ember made a sound that was part groan, part whimper, part Thank you, Jesus!
His thrusts came harder, faster. He reached around and slipped his fingers between her legs. When he touched her slick, swollen nub she jerked and cried out. Pleasure sizzled through her limbs, making her knees shake, her breath falter, and her heart throb in her chest.
She was close, so close. Her nipples were hard and aching, rubbing against the piano with each of his thrusts, sending more waves of pleasure through her as he wound her higher and higher with his body inside hers and those clever, demanding fingers stroking between her legs.
“Christian—please—hurry—together!” It was a gasped, stuttering plea, which he answered in a tone so urgent and rough it was nearly incoherent.
“Can’t—ovulating—mouth.”
How he knew she was ovulating was a question she would ask later, but what she gathered from those three disjointed words was he wanted to come in her mouth so she didn’t get pregnant. She lifted her head and looked at him over her shoulder. “No—it’s okay—the accident—I can’t—you can’t get me pregnant.”
He froze for a millisecond. His eyes took on a haunting, uncanny glow, vivid green in the shadows, as if they were lit from behind.
Then he pulled them both down to the rug beneath their feet.
He only withdrew to turn her around again, then she was flat on her back and he was between her legs, his hands on either side of his face, his face contorted in something like agony.
She reached down between their bodies and grasped him, stroked him base to tip as he groaned and shuddered. He kissed her savagely as she guided him inside.
