Page 13 of Pregnant After One Forbidden Night

She moaned when his fingers found their goal, his gentle circular caresses a blend of soothing and pressure that acted like a bellows on the still-glowing embers of her pleasure.

As he’d intended, her body tensed as the intensity built once again.

He brought her to the precipice once more with his hand, watching her face, her eyes having shut tight in pleasure, with the sharp focus of a raptor as he held her, teetering, on the edge. With his other hand, he maneuvered the condom he’d left discretely by the settee, hidden in the folds of his earlier discarded clothing. Other lovers had been impressed by the dexterity with which he could unpackage and apply the contraceptive one-handed, but the skill was more for his cover as a playboy than any desire to impress.

Rising over her while keeping her balanced on a delicious razor’s edge, he repositioned their bodies before leaning down near her ear once more.

“Sweet Jenna,” he murmured.

She moaned, the sound as sweet as the name he’d called her.

“Jenna, I’m going to have you now.”

He felt the rush of heat, the flush of her skin, the catch in her breath at his words. She was trembling beneath him, and it was still not enough.

Her strong legs hooked around his waist, instinct urging her to close the space between them, but he still held back, retaining what was left of his fraying control.

With one hand, he played her like an instrument. With the other, he positioned himself at her entrance, rubbing along the molten crease at her center.

It was a torture, of sorts, but one he relished.

This was a singular moment between the two of them. He knew once would never be enough, but never again would he have her for the first time.

He was helpless in the face of her so he made them both suffer—edging until her lips wept for release, above and below.

Taking her in, her skin flushed and taut, her dark nipples erect peaks at the top of her full breasts, he growled, “I’m going to have you now, Jenna. You’re all mine.”

Once again, she cried out, her body tensing, her arms grasping and holding on to him for an instant before her hips found the rhythm.

Then they were dancing, her body’s eager athleticism and soul’s open brightness combining to make her a natural lover.

As natural as the fit of her—hot and slick and gripping him as he slid in and out.

Losing himself to the sensation, he only gradually became aware of the fact that his mind played a single word on a loop in rhythm with each thrust: mine.

He struggled to reject the idea. He was aware enough to know that something dangerous lurked in the shadows of this desire, even if his body was too busy staking a claim to heed his mind’s warning.

He had made a mistake in tasting her once. It would be an easy thing to not do it again.

She was not his.

His mind disagreed.

His body disagreed.

The shriveled and dry thing in his chest disagreed.

With a final desperate thrust, he seized control, wrestling it back from the demon that hunted him. He was intent on denying these possessive feelings.

He was the spider in the nest. He was the shadow man pulling the strings.

He was not the one ensnared.

But when he opened, casting himself over the precipice, his mouth and soul in unison cried, “Mine.”

And because she was his, she came, too.

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