I cry out, the pleasure more intense than anything I could ever have imagined. It completely overwhelms me, captivates me, transports me. I’m in a world where only Nash and I exist, only what lies between us. Only the passion that we share.
Nash slows his rhythm to a deep grinding, the friction accentuating each wave of my orgasm. Before the spasms of my pleasure subside, he moves me back up onto the bed until my hips are once more supported by the mattress. He eases out of me and drops to his knees, hooking my legs over his shoulders and burying his face in the warm, pulsing flesh there.
My body jerks at the first touch of his hot tongue. Gently, he licks at my swollen flesh until my orgasm has nearly died, and then he becomes more aggressive.
Reaching around my leg, resting his arm on my stomach, he parts my folds with his fingers and draws the rigid nub at the top of my crease into his mouth, sucking on it and flicking it with the tip of his tongue. Once more, I feel the tension escalate. I fist one hand in the duvet and curl the fingers of my other hand in his long hair, holding hold him to me.
“Ohmigod, Nash. That feels so good.”
“Let me have it, baby. One more time. Let me taste it all.”
The vibrations of his words stimulate me even further as he moves the fingers of his other hand to my core, thrusting one into me, pushing me closer to the edge.
Putting his hands behind my knees, Nash rolls my hips up, toward my head, pushing my legs as far apart as they’ll go, opening me completely to him and his wicked mouth. In and out he moves his fingers as he licks and flicks with his tongue, faster and faster.
I melt into my second orgasm in slow, breathtaking waves. I feel my body squeeze his fingers. “Oh yeah, that’s it. Come for me.” Spreading me wide, Nash rubs my clitoris with his thumb as he thrusts his tongue inside me, lapping up every drop of moisture my body spills for him, for his touch. Just the thought of what he’s doing, of him wanting to taste me like this, is enough to renew the spasms of my climax.
When my body is limp and nearly numb from pleasure, Nash crawls up onto the bed, between my legs. From between the slits of my eyelids, I see him guide his engorged head to my entrance. And then he’s inside me and I can’t breathe again.
He stretches me so tight, he pauses to let me adjust before he withdraws and plunges into me. Wetly, he pulls out and thrusts again.
His lips find mine and he groans into my mouth. I swallow it along with my own sounds of abandon. I taste the salty sweetness of my body on his tongue. It sends a thrill through me that this was what he so wanted from me—my essence, the evidence of my pleasure.
His lips are rough on mine. Hungry. His hands are callused on my br**sts. Urgent. His body drives deep inside me. Desperate.
My entire world is on fire. I can’t tell if I’m nearing my third orgasm or if he’s just managed to rekindle the embers of the last one, but I feel my body clutching at his, milking it, begging for its release.
He tears his mouth away from mine long enough to whisper into my ear. “Tell me I can come inside you. I want you to feel it.”
His words strengthen the contractions of my body around his. More than anything, I want to feel him come inside me. “Yes,” I pant shallowly.
With a growl, I feel him stiffen as the first hot spurt of his orgasm fills me. Two more thrusts and then Nash slows his rhythm, grinding his hips into mine, rubbing me both inside and out, liquid heat spilling into me and out of me at the same time. The sensation is violent in its intensity. I dig my nails into his back to keep from falling off the edge of the world.
“Mmm, that’s right, baby. Feel it.”
His words are like gasoline on an already raging fire. They’re a physical touch that keeps me on the crest of swell after swell of my climax.
SEVENTEEN
Nash
I knew sex with this woman would be satisfying. The depth of satisfaction I feel right now—lying on top of her, still inside her, our damp chests clinging together—is just a testament to how much I needed this.
Badly.
Very badly.
I fully expect my desire for her to start tailing off. It always does. No woman holds my attention for very long, and it’s always strictly sexual while it lasts. Besides, I still have a feeling Marissa will remember one of these days. And when she does, when she realizes what happened, she’ll hate me. As well she should. It was a pretty shitty thing to do.
I guess it’s a good sign that I’m starting to feel bad about it. Guilt is a nuisance, but maybe the presence of it means I’m starting to remember what humanity feels like. It’s been lost to me for a long time, living among the animals. The criminals. The lowest of the low.
But I could do without the return of guilt. It figures that it would be the first sentiment to pierce my thick scar tissue, the only one sharp enough to penetrate my years of emotional exile.
Marissa wiggles beneath me, situating, settling in for a long snuggle. My immediate inclination happens inside her. Blood rushes to my soft head, turning it semihard. I’m ready to go again, which is not unusual for me at all. I have a very healthy sexual appetite and short recovery time.
No, it’s my second reaction that I find strange and bothersome. The muscles in my arms actually twitch and I nearly pull her in closer to me. That is very unusual.
Maybe it’s just the fact that I haven’t had any in a few weeks. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I’ve just missed women close. Any woman.
That rationale doesn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t make me any more comfortable with it. And still, I don’t like it.
Extricating myself from the tangle of our arms and legs, I roll to the end of the bed and get to my feet, zipping my pants. “I’m thirsty,” I say casually. “You want something?”
Marissa is sitting up in bed now, her arms curled around her torso, covering herself. Her expression isn’t as much wounded as it seems to be puzzled. I’m okay with puzzled. It’s the wounded part that bugs the shit out of me. I hate it when women get all pissy and hurt because I’m not the warm and fuzzy type. You’d think they’d figure that out within ten minutes of talking to me, but they don’t. That or they all think they can be the one to change me. But that’s just not gonna happen.
“Um, no. I’ll, uh, I’ll use the bathroom and get ready for bed, I think.”
I nod and make my way to the kitchen, leaving her to all her girly rituals.
I grab a beer from the fridge and take it to the sofa, intent on doing some brainstorming, going over my plans in case the Dmitry situation doesn’t work like I hope. Of course, even if it does, all the other pieces would have to fall together perfectly, too. And that doesn’t happen very often. So it behooves me to have as many other options as I can think of.