Page 8 of Bedding his Innocent Mistress

Ivy swore. A sound of total surprise, as though she’d been caught standing in the middle of the train tracks and had no idea how she was there. What was happening to her? Fever was in her blood; a fever unlike she’d ever known.

“I need … I want … please …” A cry for help, fevered and passionate.

“This,” he said, and he pushed against her, so that she nodded desperately. “I know.”

“Please,” she groaned, and when he dropped a hand and pushed aside her underpants, she wanted to take him deep inside. The invasion of his finger was a surprise and at first, she was angry – it wasn’t enough. She wanted him. His length, deep inside of her. But waves of pleasure pushed away that first initial reaction. His finger swirled inside of her, tormenting her pleasure centres, finding her most sensitive cluster of nerves and brushing them again and again until she was incandescent and crying out, pleasure overtaking her completely.

At the moment she splintered apart, he eased her to the ground. Her dress was a belt around her waist and she was on the precipice of sanity; orgasm rushed through her, reaching the outer edges of her being with determined speed, until all of her was awash with a depth of sensation she’d never known possible.

She could only lean against the wall, needing its support, her eyes half-shut as she trembled in the wake of the assault on her pleasure centres.

Rafe moved quickly, slipping a condom over his erection. He was so damned hard it almost hurt to constrict himself in the rubber, but he’d never taken risks when it came to sex and even this stunning woman wasn’t going to make him forget that. But she was such a picture, heavy with desire, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, body limp.

He swore in his native tongue, a guttural sound of need as he reached for her and lifted her once more, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting into her in one movement, pushing her back against the wall as his body claimed hers. She was so wet, and so tight. Her muscles squeezed around his length and he paused, holding her where she was as he trapped her hands and lifted them above her head, holding them with one hand as he thrust into her again and felt her convulse as pleasure continued to radiate through her.

“You are perfection,” he said, kissing her hard. His tongue lashed her mouth as his body moved with hers; it was a moment of total ownership – for both of them. Each commanded the other; his body moved for hers and hers for his.

He dragged his mouth along her cheek, down to the sensitive flesh at the base of her neck and he sucked on the pulse point there until she groaned and then he thrust hard inside of her and she jerked, pushing down, grinding against him, needing more; needing him to move quickly, to ease, or fan, the flames that were licking her anew.

He understood, but torturing her with the slow, drawn-out release of passion was too tempting. Her release would be all the better for making her wait a little longer.

He dropped his mouth to her nipples and rolled one between his lips, then clamped his teeth down on it with just enough pressure to make her cry out sharply. His fingers squeezed the other.

She was saying his name, over and over again. Rafe. Rafe. Rafe. It was a pulse in the night; a throb of need that was as much a part of him as her. Her muscles squeezed him with each thrust, tormenting his tip.

He was so deep inside her, buried in her... She moaned as he pushed into her again and everything began to explode. Pleasure was a hot spring and she was at its centre. She pulled her arms free of the makeshift prison of his hand and dug her fingers into his shoulders.

And then he was with her, crying out as he tipped over the edge, chasing her to heaven, feeling every squeeze of her body, every tremble that rocked her, and he kissed her as they exploded, tasting her sweetness and then, when he dragged his mouth to her neck again, the salty tang of sweat as it beaded on her frantic flesh.

The apartment was immaculate and they, against the wall, were the perfect contradiction to that: they were in a vortex of primal, animalistic passion. Both as savage as the other, completely overtaken by instinct and need rather than sense and civility.

“Wow.” Ivy blinked her enormous dark eyes. Her body was quivering and her breath was burning. “Wow,” she said again, shaking her head from side to side. Her hair was a bird’s nest at the back from the way she’d been dragging it over the wall.

His smile was slow to unfurl and it spread hot delight through her gut. “Wow,” he agreed, dragging his thumb over her swollen lips. He eased her to the ground and at the moment his body left hers, she made a keening sound of complaint that he answered with a small laugh.

“It’s not over,” he promised.

Her eyes flared wide. “It’s not?”

“No, Ivy. That was definitely just the beginning for us.”

*

It wasn’t fair to make comparisons.

Steve and she had been each other’s first lovers.

Their experience was limited. And though he’d never rocked her world, it had always been … nice.

“Leave it off.”

She paused, midway through lifting her dress back in place. Her eyes locked with his across the room and she felt an instant zap of power and passion. A familiarity that was borne of only the shortest acquaintance. How strange to know so little about someone and feel that they literally understood you from the inside out.

Intense experiences were bonding, though, and that had been as intense as hell.

Her eyes stayed latched to his as she continued to slide the dress upwards, holding the straps in place and then sauntering towards him. He stared at her, his expression unreadable. His lips twisted in a ghost of a smile.

“Or put it on.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and his muscular chest rippled. “That just gives me the pleasure of removing it again soon.”

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