“No,” she cried, fighting against him, but he pulled her under him, stilling her. “You were ready … I wanted it …”
“The trick, sweetheart, is to get to that place over and over again, pulling back just in time, so that when you get there it knocks you to your knees. I want to be inside you when I come. I want you coming around me, squeezing me, holding me while I fill you. Your mouth is just the beginning. So is mine.”
Before she knew what he planned he’d moved down, between her legs, kissing her, open-mouth, sucking at her, and she climaxed immediately, a fierce response that racked her body. She felt his mouth against her belly, his laugh. “You’re too easy.”
She tried to fight the wave of sensual lassitude that was sweeping over her. “Did I ruin it? You said we should wait …”
He laughed again. “You didn’t ruin it. I’ll show you.”
He moved away from her, and she reached for him, needing the anchor of his body, but his hard, strong hands were on her, and a moment later he’d turned her over on her stomach, pulling her up on her hands and knees He positioned himself behind her, his hands between her legs, touching the wetness, opening her, so that she pushed back against him, and then it wasn’t his fingers, it was the head of his cock, the head that she’d sucked on, and it was sliding into her, spreading the wetness around, pushing, deeper and deeper, and this time she knew she could have all of it, deep inside her.
She sank her head down on the bed with a pleasured moan as his hands caught her hips, and he began to move, sliding deep, moving back out, and each time he pushed he went deeper still, and each time she took him, when she thought she could take no more.
She was shaking, clutching the sheets, letting the sensations wash over her. She could do nothing but let him have her, thrusting again and again, each push making her go deeper into the dark, wonderful place, and she couldn’t get enough.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispered against the back of her neck.
“More,” she said dreamily.
He bit her then, gently, and her response rippled through her body. “More,” she said again. “Bite me harder.”
He did, his hips moving, thrusting into her, holding her, and she could feel something open up, something beyond sex and pleasure, a dark, wicked place that frightened her, but she wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t stop him, pushing her face into the sheets as he took her. His hand slid down her stomach, between her curls, touching her clitoris, pushing her over the edge, and it was too much. She shattered, and she screamed her response, shuddering, as he exploded inside her, holding her against him as he climaxed.
She didn’t want him to withdraw, but he did, pulling her down beside him, cradling her against him, his mouth at her ear, kissing her neck, biting her earlobe gently. His heart was pounding against her back, and he whispered in her ear. “And then, when you get carried away and come sooner than you planned, you just wait a little while and then start again.”
She was still shaking from the aftermath, her body covered with sweat. She caught his arms and drew them tight around her, keeping herself snug in the safety of his hard, hot body. “Again?” she murmured sleepily, her body still tingling.
“And again and again
and again.”
He woke her three times that night, trying to work off the insatiable longing she seemed to bring out in him. She was as aroused as he was, as hungry, and each time she drove him further, until the last, at dawn, when they’d made love almost sweetly, a slow, tender mating as the first light came through the closed shutters and danced across the bed. It was cold then, and he hadn’t wanted to get up and stoke the fire, but she decided she needed to, and he caught her halfway across the room and tossed her back on the bed, covering her, the two of them laughing.
When had he laughed in bed? He couldn’t remember. When had he been with a woman, slept with a woman, fucked a woman who felt so perfectly right for him? When in his entire goddamned life had he ever made love before?
He looked at her, curled up in his arms, her hand beneath her chin as always. The bruise on her face stood out, and he wished there were some way to make it disappear. There wasn’t. All he could do was hold her, all he could do was love her.
For now.
“Hungry now,” Dylan announced. He was sprawled on one of the sofas in the great room of the farmhouse, watching a movie on the portable DVD player he’d managed to find. He had the earphones on, so his voice came out as a gentle shout, and Beth didn’t bother answering. She was already in the kitchen, cutting up leeks. She’d found some frozen chicken and defrosted it in the microwave, and she was busy sautéing it, drinking a glass of the wine that MacGowan had brought her, his hand brushing against her when Dylan wasn’t looking.
She’d smiled at him, and he’d started to move closer, then glanced at their chaperone and laughed. Later, his eyes said. Soon.
They hadn’t gotten out of bed until midday, and it was now getting dark, the night closing in around the old farmhouse. MacGowan had a fire roaring in the huge old fireplace, and she was dressed in his clothes, warm socks and sweatpants and sweatshirt. She liked them. She liked wearing his clothes, wearing him around her. When he sent her away she wasn’t going to give them back.
The kitchen was open to the great room, and MacGowan slid back in, rubbing up against her, moving her long hair out of the way so that he could kiss her on the back of the neck, the same place where he’d bitten her, and she felt a shimmer run through her body. She started to lean back, when she felt him freeze.
There were three sets of doors leading out from the great room. One of them opened, and a tall, blonde man walked in, the faintest trace of a limp barely slowing him, and his gaze went directly to MacGowan.
She knew who he was. He had the same, deadly look to his eyes that MacGowan had, carried himself the same way, but he came in without a gun. This could only be Finn’s boss, the man he’d sworn to kill.
“MacGowan,” the man said in a cultured British accent.
“Madsen,” Finn acknowledged. And a second later one of the kitchen knives was hurtling through the air toward the newcomer with deadly accuracy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The knife ended up embedded in the old wood cupboard, sinking deep. The newcomer didn’t look ruffled, though he’d ducked. “Losing your touch in your old age, MacGowan?”