Page 88 of Art of Sin

It takes an eternity for Gideon to bottom out inside me.

“Breathe, mon bijou. That’s it. Yes. Perfect.”

Another eternity passes before pleasure eclipses discomfort. But it does. Oh, it does. There are no words. Fullness doesn’t qualify.

Can a sensation be so much that it becomes its opposite? Because this feels like dispersion. Immersion. I dissolve in them. In us. The mingling of our scents, our gasps and cries. Roaming hands and twitching fingers, curling toes, sweat dripping, slick skin sliding and a perfect, rocking rhythm that transcends our individualities.

“Fuck, fuck,” Finn hisses against the nape of my neck, “I’m close. Can I come inside you?”

I’m too far gone to answer.

“Do it,” growls Gideon as he stills.

Finn’s grip on my hip increases, his thrusts growing harder and erratic, his breath panting and harsh. A smile of sheer pleasure slips over my mouth.

“You feel it, don’t you?” whispers Gideon against my damp forehead. “Your power?”

I nod, closing my eyes as Finn stiffens, his hips planted against my ass, his climax roaring through him. Through me. The act triggers something in Gideon. He snarls, grabbing my face until I blink open my eyes.

“You’re still mine.”

The words are almost inaudible. Guttural and primeval. I touch his face gently, nodding, and lift my chin to capture his lips. I’m barely aware of Finn’s slow withdrawal, his weight leaving the bed.

There is only Gideon, rolling onto his back to bring me above him. Firelight dances across his chest, his wild russet hair and fierce expression. My nails dance down his slick chest, leaving trails of red. He grabs my hips, tilting my pelvis down to the angle he knows brings me the most pleasure.

“Deirdre. Fuck me.”

Not a command—a desperate plea.

One I’m compelled to answer with everything I am.

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