Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark #1)(50)
Author: Gena Showalter

He wasn’t sure how he managed to hide the force of his arousal from her. He felt like a rubber band pulled too tight, ready to snap at any moment. What could he do to propel her to that point? Move against her, as she had moved against him?

He shifted slightly, brushing against her—but that wasn’t nearly enough, and merely fueled his desire all the more. But…a groan escaped her, and then, oh, finally, blessedly then, she stopped taking time to look at him, stopped searching his face, and gave him a kiss that seared his soul, her mind seemingly as lost as his was.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, angling his head for deeper, better contact. On and on this new, hotter kiss continued, until they were biting at each other, moaning and groaning and saying incoherent things. He wanted more, so much more, and his muscles bunched and knotted from the strain of holding back.

Then she began to rock against him, her entire body rubbing, rubbing, rubbing against his. He was desperate to get closer to her, as close as a man could be with a woman. Wanted it, needed it so badly.

“Zacharel, I want… I need…”

Exactly want he wanted and needed, he prayed. “Anything. Name it, and I will give it to you.”

“Roll to your side.”

He obeyed in an instant, so that they were face-to-face, body-to-body. His every exhalation blended with her every inhalation, mixing their breath, making them one, even in so small a way.

“Your hands…on me,” she commanded. “But only if you want to. I mean, we can stop if you’d—”

“No stopping,” he rushed out, then forced himself to say more slowly, “I want. I do. More than anything. But I’m not in a hurry.” On some level—probably. “I’ll go nice and easy.” He would force himself.

“Okay, yes. Please. Slow.”

He released only one hand from captivity to lift the hem of her shirt. Her skin was a mesmerizing bronze, and his a lighter gold; it was such a delicious contrast, inflaming the spark of his desire to yet another feverish degree.

“You are so beautiful, Annabelle.”

“Really?”

Yes, oh, yes. “Your mind…”

“Is on you, only you. Or were you trying to tell me how beautiful my mind is?” she asked with a little giggle.

A pleasant blend of relief and satisfaction soared through him. He had made her laugh, in bed. “What do you want me to do?”

“What are you wanting to do?” she breathed.

Strip himself, strip her, touch, taste, consume, learn, know, nothing held back—things she wasn’t ready for. Steady.

“I will put my hands on you, as you demanded.” He cupped her breast, paused, waiting for her reaction. She moaned at the pleasure, thrilling him. His hand began to burn, burn so deliciously, hotter than the rest of him as he kneaded her.

Another moan left her.

Yessss. More.

“Your skin is like fire,” she said on a moan.

“Bad?”

“Wonderful.”

He tightened his grip on her breast, allowed his fingers to trace over the little pink bead in the center again and again.

Until she gasped out, “Zacherel, I can handle the next step. Promise.”

Taking her at her word, he bent his head, lower, lower still, but when his lips hovered directly over her, he paused, again waiting. Though she panted and mewled, she never turned from him, or tried to shove him away.

Steady. His tongue flicked out on an exploratory mission. Such sweet, sweet contact nearly undid him. Having the warmth of her skin on his tongue…the taste of her in his mouth…was there anything greater?

“I’m here with you,” she promised.

He allowed his tongue to play, tracing from one side of her to the other and then back again. Something he learned in the ensuing minutes: the more he played with her, the more broken entreaties he earned from her. Each one pleased him, driving his own need higher still. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

Very carefully, he dragged his hands along the plane of her stomach and untied her pants. Her cries of approval did not cease, so he allowed his fingers to tunnel down…down… She wasn’t wearing any panties.

“Wait,” she said brokenly, her legs squeezing together.

He froze.

Cheeks rosy, she asked, “Are you… Do you know…what to expect?”

She wasn’t expressing concern for what was happening, but concern for his mindset. “I do.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Sweetheart, I am more than okay with that.”

A pause. “You called me sweetheart,” she whispered. Gradually her legs parted. “I like that.”

Then I will do it again. He continued his journey and oh, she was perfect. So utterly perfect. She had liked his kisses and caresses—and she liked what he was doing now, if the short puffs of her breath were any indication.

For a long while he simply learned her, and her reactions taught him what she liked best. He loved when she strained against him, loved when she mumbled inarticulately. Loved knowing he was causing such a strong reaction in her.

“You are the most decadent creature ever created, sweetheart,” he said. He withdrew his hands from her, hands that were still burning in a way he’d never experienced, and she cried out in distress. “I’m here,” he assured her, “and I’m not going anywhere. I just want to lift you, just want to be able to go deeper.”

He placed a pillow under her hips and returned to what he’d been doing. Soon she was gasping, rolling her hips toward him, touching him as intimately as he was touching her…driving him wild…making him hunger for what he didn’t understand….

…hunger so desperately…

He was in pain, but he couldn’t stop this. Need more, have to have more.

The same fog he’d experienced before was trying to roll in, to consume him, but he resisted. Yes, his blood had heated, becoming fire, singeing him all the way to the bone. Yes, his teeth were gnashed together and his muscles knotted more painfully than ever. But he was master of his body, not desire. He would make this special for Annabelle. He would not ruin it.

At least, that’s what he told himself—before she lifted his robe and took his length in hand and he nearly jolted off the bed. She stroked him up and down. He loved it. He hated it. He needed more, more, more, but couldn’t withstand any more. Would die, surely.

The faster she moved her hand on him, the faster he moved his fingers in her. It was…it was…