Still, this was torture.
She wiggled on top of him, grinding her pelvis down over his. He pressed back up at her, for the first time realizing how cruel his little game had been. Having her so close, feeling her touch him without the chance of touching her back was maddening. He wanted to grab those soft, rounded hips and thrust up into her so high she screamed.
Instead, he simply lay there trying not to whimper. Each movement pressed her heat against him. Each twist of her pelvis imitated the dance he wanted to perform so desperately he thought he might explode.
Then her fingers pulled open his shirt and he thought he’d died and gone to hell.
For a moment she stilled, and he couldn’t breathe. If she didn’t touch him he would die. If she touched him it might be just as bad. His c**k was so hard he thought it might split. Worse yet, he might explode on her again. Fuck, he thought in disgust. He should have jacked off first. At least that way he wouldn’t be like a teener in heat. Then her fingernails touched his chest and he forgot to think altogether.
She trailed them down the length of his chest, moving between his ni**les toward his belly. She trailed them across the rippled muscles of his abdomen, and he twitched. She flattened her fingers across him, and then massaged him lightly, rocking back and forth across his c**k at the same time. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find some relief. Just as it became more than he could bear, she lifted her fingers and grew still.
Her weight shifted once more, and he felt her hair brush across his chest. He imagined what she would look like leaning over him. Hair dangling, br**sts just above his flesh, ni**les hard and ready for him. He gasped at the thought, a sound that turned to a moan as she nipped his right nipple sharply.
“No peeking,” she reminded him. Her tongue darted out to lave the small wound. He shivered, and let his head fall to one side. The temptation to look at her was too strong. He knew without asking that if she caught him, he’d be sleeping alone that night.
After a moment her hot little tongue lifted. The cool air hit his nipple and it tightened. Something flicked across it—her finger? He moaned again.
“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered after several long seconds of teasing.
“Tempting,” she said lightly. “But perhaps a bit premature. I haven’t figured out how to fly the ship by myself yet.”
“You’d better save me, then,” he said softly, thrusting his hips up at her. “If I have a stroke you’ll be all alone out here.”
She laughed, and then lifted herself enough to scoot down his body. Her clever fingers worked at the fastening to his pants, and then he felt the cool air hit the length of his erection.
Before he could say anything, she shifted again and sheathed herself suddenly on his length. After all the slow teasing, the sudden shock of her heat was enough to make him cry out. She seemed to enjoy his shock, squeezing him tightly with her internal muscles. Then she stilled, seated on him with her hands braced against his chest.
“So, what now?” she asked.
“What kind of question is that?” he asked back. He twisted beneath her, vainly trying to create some friction between them.
She laughed, deep and low, then pulled herself up and abruptly seated herself again.
“It’s a question of technique,” she said. “Do you want hard and fast, or long and slow?”
She punctuated her question with brief demonstrations and he nearly exploded on the spot.
“I think fast and hard is probably the best at this point,” he managed to whisper. He clutched his hands more tightly into the mattress. Everything in his being cried out at him to grab her, clutch her tightly and roll her beneath him. He wasn’t used to giving up power, in bed or out. Oblivious to his internal struggle for control, she rocked back and forth across him, each movement tight and controlled. He bucked his hips up at her, wanting more, but every time he started to move she stilled.
So he concentrated on holding himself as still as possible, gritting his teeth as she slowly stroked across him.
She was hot and wet around him—had been from the beginning—but he could tell she was getting more excited as she moved. She seemed to grow wetter and hotter over him, and after a while her movements became less controlled. Her fingers clutched his chest tightly before she started riding him in earnest.
Perhaps she’d intended to go long and slow, but soon it was clear she had as little control over her body as he had over his. She moaned and gasped each time she sheathed him. He could feel the tension spiraling up within him, and every muscle in his body tightened in anticipation of his completion. He bit his lip to hold it back, realizing instinctively that she was only seconds away from her second orgasm.
He felt something warm and salty fill his mouth and realized it was blood. He didn’t care. All that mattered was holding back the explosion threatening to overwhelm his system. His pulse roared in his ears, his fingers went numb from holding the mattress. Still he held his release back.
Again and again she took him. Suddenly she leaned forward, changing her position slightly. Then she screamed and her nails dug into his chest. She detonated around him with such force that he lost control.
His hands flew to her hips, slamming her down over his c**k as his seed flew out and up into her. Again and again he pulled her body against his, shuddering with the force of his release. Then he was spent, and he seemed to completely lose his ability to move. Simply breathing became an effort.
She lay down over him, her body cradling his as they relaxed. He wrapped his arms around her, marveling at how right she felt with him.
He wanted her to sleep with him.
It was ridiculous, of course. She had her own cabin for a reason. He knew he’d get tired of her, knew just how annoying it was to be trapped with a woman in bed. The main reason he paid prostitutes was to avoid such situations as this. That, and he was tired of women asking questions about his scar. It didn’t seem to bother her at all, though, and he wasn’t even sure how he felt about that. Why didn’t it bother her? What did that say about the other women he’d been with?
What did it say about her?
He shook his head, wiping the thoughts away. This was crazy—he didn’t want to think about things like this.
She shifted, and then yawned.
“I’m wiped, let’s turn off the light and go to sleep,” she muttered, rolling toward him and tucking herself against his side.
“Your own cabin,” he muttered without thinking.
“What?” she asked, turning to look at him.