Page 57 of Where It All Began
John kicked the bedroom door open with gusto and dropped them both on the bed, the mattress springs protesting. Flailing wildly, he yanked her shirt over her head with one hand and snapped on the bedside lamp with the other.
She’d had him in nearly every way possible, Phoebe thought, tugging off his shirt and running her hungry hands down his back. Slow and sweet in the early dawn, languidly, teasingly in the late afternoons or after midnight. He took his time every time with her. But this desperation, this raw intensity was new and beautiful.
Her body yearned for his. She hitched her legs higher up his hips, and he pressed himself against her. Damp, rigid denim grinded against the cotton of her briefs. He used one hand to unzip his fly, and Phoebe eagerly shoved at his jeans with her heels.
She needed him closer. He kissed her feverishly, and for a moment she forgot everything she’d ever known. Everything she’d ever dreamed or wanted or accomplished. All that mattered was right here, right now. He made her feel like this fragile thing ready to be worshipped by mouth and hands. It made her dizzy.
Another bolt of lightning lit the sky through the windows, and the lamp went out with a snap. The thunder reverberated in her bones. The storm had robbed the house of power but not them. They still had all they needed.
Phoebe used her legs to kick and roll, pinning John to his back. The sheet fell to the floor. The rain pounded against the panes of glass. And John’s sterling eyes held her under an unspoken spell. Together, they worked his boxers off and then her underwear, and as his big, hard hands roamed her body, Phoebe made a grab for the box of condoms that had taken up residence on the nightstand.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispered.
“I want to give you what you want.”
His whispered confession, rasped between rolls of thunder gave her goose bumps on every inch of her skin.
“I want you totake.” He always gave and gave and gave until she was loose and nearly comatose. And, for once, she wanted to watch him take just for himself. To be greedy with her body. She wanted to see him selfish and craving, using her body to take him over that jagged edge of desire.
She slid her hand down across taut abs, stroking down one thigh and up the other. Her fingertips burned from the heat pumping off him.
Unable to wait any longer, Phoebe gripped his thick shaft and leaned forward to taste him. She knew how to get him to the point where he was delirious with the need to take, to consume.
“Phoebe,” he hissed out her name.
“It’s okay,” she promised and took him into her mouth. She could tell by the rigid muscle under her hands that John was using every ounce of strength to stay perfectly still for her. But she would break him down.
Slicking down over him again and again, Phoebe followed her mouth with the grip of her hand. She’d let him pleasure her so often these past few weeks, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been learning his body, his cues.
He groaned as if tormented by her pleasure, and she lapped at him with the flat of her tongue drawing a strangled “fuck” from his lips.
When he could take her torture no more, John clamped a hand over her wrist. “You need to stop. Now.”
She obeyed but only to roll the condom onto his straining shaft. Just that perfunctory touch had John’s hips levering off the bed, his body begging for more.
Before he could regain any control, Phoebe moved to straddle his hips and, in one swift move, took him inside her. They gasped together at the invasion, so sensual, so shocking. Phoebe felt it, that biological relief at being possessed by John.
It was nothing she’d ever sought out or wanted—not that she’d known such a feeling existed—but Phoebe couldn’t pretend that the raw vulnerability he made her feel wasn’t real. Making love to John was nothing like any of her previous, limited experience. There was something here that went beyond pleasure and beyond scratching an itch.
John came to life under her, his hands cupping her breasts, kneading her flesh and sending shocks of pleasure through her straining nipples.
She rose on her knees only to sink down on him again, sheathing his cock within her. She wasn’t sure how much of her own torture she could take before she gave in to the cravings that screamed through her blood. She wanted to drive John past his tenderness, his care-taking. She wanted to push him into the dark, delicious desire that he so often held her captive in.
She leaned down, the tips of her breasts dragging across his chest, and when she took his mouth, he wrestled control from her. He withdrew abruptly and her muscles clenched weakly around the emptiness. And then he was on his knees behind her, lifting her hips.
Phoebe buried her face in the lone pillow left on the bed. It smelled like him. He guided her hips higher and then drove into her with a ferocity that had her gasping for breath.
“Too much?” he gritted out, barely slowing his pace.
It took her a moment to find the word, to catch her breath. “More!”
Her demand was met with a soft grunt as he used her hips to thrust into her harder than he’d ever taken her.
“Is this what you want?” he demanded, on a low growl.
“God, yes!”
He released one hip and gripped her breast that reverberated with every thrust.
