Page 34 of Painted in Love

She threw her head back, and her muscles clamped down on him. He growled, groaned, barely held off—but he needed her to be coming when he filled her.

Her legs began to shake, tremors shuddering through her body. She was close, and he circled faster around that hot little bead of pleasure between her legs. Then he felt the sharp, tight spasm around him, and she cried out.

He thrust into her in that perfect moment, ground against her. She gripped his butt, pulled him deeper and deeper still. He rode out her climax, taking her hard and fast, relishing every exquisite contraction of her body. Until a pulse rose from deep within him, and with her next spasm, he shot like a rocket inside her, losing his mind with the sensation of her body clutching him and her nails digging into his bare butt.

He lost himself completely inside her.

Clay woke to full dark, a warm bed, and her mouth on him.

Christ, the feel of her lips, her tongue, her skin against his. This must be what heaven was like. His body rocked to her rhythm as he pushed himself deeper, the action involuntary.

He whispered, “You’re driving me crazy.” He was so damn thankful no one had climbed the stairs all evening to interrupt them.

She laughed, the sound vibrating through him, ratcheting his need one rung higher on the ladder of desire.

Squeezing his shaft in her hand, she rose to suckle on the tip. Not only was his mind blown, but everything else was too. He gasped out the words a moment before he lost it. “Don’t make me come now. I want to come inside you.”

She raised her head to look at him, her hand working him, keeping him just short of the edge. “Then you’d better get busy. Because I am so ready for you.” Her voice dropped to a husky drawl that strummed every nerve ending in his body. Then she handed him a condom. “This time,” she added, “I want to ride.”

In a swift, graceful move, she climbed over him. He was so hard that sliding the condom on was easy, her touch turning him to steel. On her knees, she straddled him, her womanhood on display, droplets of her desire shining.

He wet his lips, but he didn’t beg. Her hand wrapped around him once more, she whispered, “Are you ready?”

His words came out in a feral curse. “I’m so freaking ready that I might just come before you even get me inside you.”

She laughed. “No, you won’t.”

Then she lowered onto him, so maddeningly slowly that his eyes damn near rolled back in his head. She allowed him to penetrate her inch by slow inch until his erection was buried deep inside her. Then she clenched around him.

He growled. “You’re not just driving me crazy. I’m already there. I’ll never get my sanity back.”

He savored the laughter falling from her lips. “You’re not crazy yet. But I’m working on it.”

Leaning forward, she braced her hands by his shoulders, moving in that crazy-making rhythm. The quiver of her sex around him told him how good it was for her too. She liked it slow over her G-spot, and he put his finger on her, rubbing that sweet button between her legs.

She gasped, closed her eyes, relishing the sensation the way he relished the feel of her clutching him. They played the game, him trying to push her over into climax, her trying to keep that slow, steady rhythm even as her body began to quake. Her arms shook on the bed, and he knew she had to be close.

But he let her keep taking him at that slow, agonizing pace.

Her skin grew hot against his, and her moans grew louder, cascading from her lips. Then he felt that suddenly tight grip as she convulsed around him. Hands on her hips, he drove up into her, going deep, their bodies pounding. It should have been agony, but nothing had ever felt so good. They worked each other, with cries and unintelligible words, their bodies slick, melded together.

Until he felt that orgasmic pulse inside, and a deep throb shot up his shaft. He growled, he groaned, then he pulled her down one last time, holding her still, grinding against her, giving them both one last glorious blast of pleasure.

Then she collapsed on him.

He held her tight, their hearts pounding against each other, and wondered if he could ever let her go.

She wanted to tell herself it was only this good because she’d gone so long without sex. Because nothing could be this good. Better than anything she’d ever known. Better even than the high she got as she stepped back from a piece of her art and knew it was remarkable.

Nothing could feel like the pulse of him inside her. Nothing like his arms enveloping her. Nothing like the musky scent of him, of her, of their sex.

She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to free him from her tight grip.

Of course, by morning, she’d see it for what it was. Good sex. Nothing wrong with good sex or coming back for more good sex. But in the morning, she would see it was nothing miraculous.

Yet she let the miracle of it wash over her now. Especially when he whispered against her hair, “That was so freaking good.” His guttural tone set her cells vibrating.

“We’ve got the whole night,” she murmured. Morning was hours away.

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