The hand in her hair disentangled itself and moved to her shoulder, fingers hooking under her strap, pulling it down, dragging the top of her bodice with it. One breast freed, revelling in the stripping of the fabric barrier between her flesh and his, a mega-leap in sensitivity. Better still when he freed the other and shed his shirt. Wonderful to lift her arms out of the straps and throw her hands around his neck, running her fingers through the thick texture of his hair, able to press a far more intimate contact, exultantly satisfying.
He kissed her and kissed her, a passionate onslaught of kisses that drove her wild with wanting more of him. And it was there for her to have, his erection pressing into her stomach, wanting entry, seeking entry, as urgently desperate for it as she was.
Driven by a frenzy of desire she rubbed herself against the hard erotic roll of his highly charged sex, wishing she could hoist herself up to fit where she should, needing to engulf him, possess him, draw him deep inside her to where she ached to be filled, over and over again.
Then his hands were at her waist, thrusting her dress down over her hips, dragging her panties with it. ‘Step out of them,’ he gruffly commanded and they were whisked away from her as she blindly obeyed—blindly, recklessly, inhibitions totally abandoned. And it seemed to her in the same instant his shorts were gone, too, discarded in a swift tumult of action that rid them of all barriers to the ultimate intimacy.
He lifted her, propped her on the edge of the bench, moved between her legs, and finally, blissfully, he was there, sliding into the slick hot depths that had been waiting for him, tilting her back so he could reach further, and all her inner muscles clenched around him in ecstatic pleasure. Her legs instinctively locked around his hips, an act of utter exultation, and he kissed her, driving the overwhelming passion for this moment of union to an incredible level of sensation, total merging, making her feel they were flowing into each other and every cell in her body was melting from the sheer power of it.
He muttered something fierce under his breath as his mouth left hers, then in a harsh rasp close to her ear, ‘Please say you’re on the pill, Serena.’
‘Yes,’ spilled from her lips on a sigh of grateful relief. She hadn’t thought…didn’t want to think now…only to feel.
And the feeling was fantastic as he moved inside her, a series of fast surges that left her on one pinnacle of exquisite sensation after another. Even when he climaxed it left her afloat on a sea of sweet pleasure. She didn’t want to move. Doubted that she could anyway. Her arms and legs seemed drained of strength. But for his support she would have collapsed in a limp heap.
His chest was heaving. ‘Shouldn’t have happened here,’ he muttered, his tone raw, savage. ‘Madness…’
Serena was beyond comment.
‘A kitchen bench, for God’s sake!’ he went on, sounding shocked, horrified. He swept her off it, strong arms holding her securely against him, carrying her…swift strides being taken. ‘Sorry, sorry…’ The anguished apology jerked out as he seemed intent on rushing her somewhere else. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I swear.’
Why did it matter? Serena thought in hazy confusion. Was he worried that it hadn’t been good for her? Had he somehow missed her response? Her head was resting on his wonderfully broad shoulder, her hands loosely linked behind his neck. She sighed, not knowing what to say, loving his aggressive maleness, trusting him to look after the next step to wherever they were going together. It was like being swept along in a dream she didn’t want to end, and the best part was he was real. All she was feeling with him was real.
He laid her on a bed, a soft doona on its surface beneath her, a soft pillow under her head, lovely sensual comfort. He stood looking down at her, shaking his head in a kind of awed wonderment as his gaze travelled slowly from the spill of her hair on the pillow to the languorous satisfaction written on her face, the tilt of her breasts, the curved spread of her hips, the moist apex of her thighs, the relaxed sprawl of her legs.
She didn’t mind being so open to his view. She could look her fill of him, too, his magnificent physique, the immense power packed into his beautifully male anatomy. The man, she thought with a fatuous smile, and dizzily hoped he was seeing her, thinking of her as the woman, because none of this would ever make sense to her unless such special terms were applied to it.
‘I’m not a rough, inconsiderate lover, Serena,’ he assured her anxiously. ‘Let me show you.’
Rough? He hadn’t done anything she hadn’t wanted. As for the kitchen bench…it had helped, not hurt. He hadn’t hurt her one bit. Absolutely the contrary. She hadn’t needed foreplay. But she was curious now about his thoughts. He seemed appalled at himself for having lost his sense of what he considered a suitable place for sex. Or was it about loss of control?
She liked the idea of Nic losing control with her. Somehow that made it even more right, whereas a step-by-step attempt at seduction would have felt wrong. Was that what he planned to do now, or was he intent on proving something to himself? It wasn’t clear to her. Nothing much was…except how he made her feel.
He moved to the end of the bed, gently picked up one of her feet and started to unbuckle the ankle strap of her high-heeled sandal. Serena was amazed she was still wearing it—both of them. They’d completely dropped out of her consciousness. He stroked the shape of her ankle, the sole of her foot as he slipped the sandal off. Her toes curled as a zing of excitement travelled up her leg, fanning the embers of sexual arousal.
He lifted her other foot, caressing it in the same way as he removed its sandal and Serena almost squirmed from the exquisite sensuality of his touch. He knelt between her legs, skimming her calves and her inner thighs with his fingertips, her flesh tingling, quivering as he parted the soft lips of her sex and bent his head to kiss her there, flooding her with such intense feeling, her whole body arched in convulsive need for him.
He moved his hand to the same place, stroking to answer her need as he lifted himself up and hovered over her. ‘Cup your breasts for me, Serena. Hold them close,’ he commanded huskily.
She did. His mouth closed over them, one at a time, drawing deeply on them, lashing the distended nipples with his tongue, and she found her fingers squeezing her breasts higher for him, revelling in the wild voluptuousness of the action while his fingers were stroking and circling the soft moist entry to the seething need within, preparing the way, building the anticipation to screaming point.