Page 96 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
He takes over and starts to pump into me, deep and slow, his mouth on my neck. My nipples drag against his chest with every move, sending shock waves of pleasure throughout my body as a coil of pressure winds tight deep inside me, tighter and tighter with every stroke of his cock.
“I’m close,” I breathe, shaking with the need for release.
“Hold on, baby. Draw it out. It’ll be so much more intense if you can hold on.”
He keeps pumping, flexing his hips in that agonizingly slow, steady rhythm, his breath hot at my ear. When I cry out, almost tipping over the edge, he falls still and peppers sweet, gentle kisses all over my neck and shoulder.
I pull his hair, wanting to scream, wanting to come but also wanting to hold on, gulping big breaths and shaking uncontrollably beneath him.
“Oh, fuck you’re right there,” he whispers when I clench around him. He raises his head and stares into my eyes. There’s a moment, a long, bottomless moment, where we simply gaze at each other, our hearts in our eyes, everything laid bare between us.
Then he exhales and thrusts into me, and I’m over the edge.
My body bows as my orgasm slams into me, stiffening my muscles and stealing the breath from my lips. I cry out, mindless, thrashing, going crazy underneath him as he drives into me again and again, grunting through his pleasure, watching me come through slitted eyes.
Ryan Ryan Ryan.
I’m screaming his name—or sobbing it—I don’t know, and I don’t care.
I’m past caring about anything but him, but this, this whirlwind of thunder and lightning, of howling gales and scalding rain. This could be heaven or it could be hell, and when I realize it doesn’t matter as long as he’s with me, it finally shatters what’s left of the wall around my heart.
It all crumbles away. All my doubt. All my fear. All my stupid excuses.
I do belong to this man, no matter how much I might try to deny it, no matter how much my rational mind might scoff. No matter how crazy it is. How impossible.
I’m his.
Then he’s laughing. Loudly, with his head thrown back, a wild, crazy laugh like he just broke out of prison.
“Yes, you are,” he says, still laughing, which is when I realize I’ve said it aloud.
He rolls flat onto his back, taking me with him in a smooth motion, made simple by the strength of his arms. My hair cascades around my shoulders and breasts as I stare down at him with heavy lids in a fog of sheer pleasure, feeling him so deep and hard inside me. I’m still throbbing around him, and my body is still pulsing inside, so I follow the beat of the pulse and rock against his cock, throwing my head back and closing my eyes.
His hands grip my hips. He thrusts up into me, his breath harsh and guttural.
“Look at you, oh fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful, Jesus, Jesus—” He cuts off with a groan, his body bowing up into mine. “Fuck! I’m gonna come! Fuck, Angel, your mouth, gimme your mouth—”
He breaks off with another groan, this one desperate.
I manage to clamber down and get him into my mouth just as he starts to come, spilling hotly onto my tongue. He’s shouting, his head pitched back onto the pillow, all the muscles in his abdomen and arms standing out.
I swallow. He gives me more. He’s twisting in the blankets, pulling my hair, out of control, grunting like an animal as he pumps against my mouth. I love every second of it, his taste, his total abandon, everything.
He comes like he does everything else, 1,000 percent committed. Crying out until he’s hoarse, praising me, making me feel beautiful, like fairy tales could be true and happily ever afters might be an actual possibility. When it’s over and he’s spent, lying motionless and panting, his chest slick with sweat, I sit back on my heels and just look at him. I drink him in with my eyes, memorizing every golden line of his body.
Because in some dark part of my heart, no matter how much I want to believe in them, I know that fairy tales aren’t true.
He cracks an eye open and peers at me. “Oh no. I see smoke. You’re thinking.”
“No, I’m admiring the picture I’ve made.”
“What picture is that?”
“The picture of a big, strong man wrung out and helpless against me.”
“Well,” he says, his voice husky, “not totally helpless.” His cock, still erect, twitches against his belly. When I laugh, he holds out his arms. “Get up here.”
I crawl up and fit myself against him, snuggling under his arm and throwing my leg over his. He kisses my forehead, one arm tightening around me in a possessive embrace. The other hand trails up my arm, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I rest my head against his chest, listen to the steady thump of his heart, and close my eyes.
