He could have taken over then. He might have, but this was up to her. “Well?” he echoed, his hands beside him.
Her soft mouth twisted in annoyance, and he was ready for her to climb off, determined not to catch her and pull her back no matter how much it killed him, when her hands dropped down to the waistband of his jeans, flicking open the button. The zipper was beginning to part with the thrust of his erection pressing against it, and she didn’t hesitate, pulling it down all the way, exposing the soft gray cotton of his boxers. Then she reached for his hips, and he lifted up, enough for her to shove everything down his thighs, and his cock throbbed between them. She shifted a bit, down and back, straddling his thighs, and he could feel she was wet through the last bit of clothes she was wearing. If anything it made him even harder, and he wanted to get his mouth on her nipples, he wanted to suck at them, pull at them, bite them.
“Move back,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”
Her face was very still. She hadn’t touched him yet, but he could feel her long, cool fingers so close to him that he wanted to groan. “Why?”
“I want to suck your breasts.”
“It doesn’t turn me on,” she said in her cold little voice.
“Maybe you haven’t had the right person do it.” He didn’t wait for her reply, pulling her closer, so that her center rested against his solid cock, nestling there. She frowned, but he couldn’t give her complete control, and he leaned over and licked one taut nipple.
She had small breasts, nothing like Rachel’s monumental constructions, and he didn’t care. He let his teeth graze her, and he felt a shiver rip through her body, clearly surprising her. “I told you I didn’t like it,” she said, a little strangled, and he smiled against her.
He let his teeth surround her, softly, enough to imprison but not enough to hurt, and he let his tongue tease the little nub, flicking back and forth until she began squirming, rubbing against him almost involuntarily. He took her other breast in his strong hand, squeezing her just to the point of pain but no further, and she bucked again, letting out a tiny moan.
He lifted his head. “In case you ever find yourself in a position to make love to a woman,” he murmured, “you need to remember that breasts are different with everyone. A lot of women need gentle coaxing, almost worshipful attention. But more women than you’d imagine need a little roughness.” He pinched her breast, and he saw the reaction in her face, the dazed expression in her brown eyes. They’d been soft before, except when she was staring at him in rage, but now they were positively unfocused in reaction to what he was doing. “You’re one of the ones who need a little roughness.” Leaning forward, he took her breast into his mouth, stroking, soothing with his tongue, and when she rubbed against him in sudden need, he bit down.
The sound she made was a little bit louder then, dangerous under the circumstances, but he fed on it anyway. He didn’t care if she had the noisiest orgasm in the history of the world—he wanted it from her. He wanted her to take it from him, to drain him dry and then suck him off. He wanted sex—sex with this woman—and he wanted it all night long and the next day besides. In fact, he couldn’t imagine ever getting sick of her, but he knew that was a fantasy. He wasn’t a man for relationships, for monogamy, for long-term flings. He was a night or two at a time, energetic, healthy fun for both with no strings attached. Sophie came with so many strings she might just as well have been a marionette.
Except she was pulling her own strings. No one was making her do anything she didn’t want to do, and she squirmed against him, pushed against him, wanting more.
It was going to make things worse, he thought dazedly, holding still while she pressed against his erection. They’d done it once, in anger and reluctant need, something that simply needed to be done.
It should have meant nothing. Instead, it had been a taste of something very sweet, dangerously so, and he wanted it again. He could feel her hands on his chest, sliding down, and then they were on his cock—cool, clever fingers—tugging at him, and he let out a small huff of air, trying to control his reaction. She was wet, she was willing, and he wanted nothing more than to flip her over on her back and slam into her. He didn’t move, leaning back and closing his eyes. That afternoon had been too close to force. This time she wasn’t going to be able to hide behind blaming him. This time she was going to take what she wanted.
To his shock, she did just that, sliding down his legs so that her mouth was just above his straining dick. He could feel her warm, soft breath on him, and he wanted to moan out loud, but he didn’t move, his arms rigid as he held himself under tight control.
She glanced up at him from beneath her tangled hair, and there was a slightly wicked expression in her eyes. For the first time he caught a glimpse of who she had been, before she’d run afoul of the Committee and Archer MacDonald. He thought he’d known her, understood her, the victim who was still fighting back.
He was wrong. She was nobody’s victim, and the Sophie he thought he knew was the last person to be half-naked astride her avowed enemy’s body, ready to take his cock into her mouth.
She started with her tongue, gently licking the crown, and this time his groan was audible. And then she explored him, her tongue dancing around his shaft, tracing the thick veins, then putting her mouth over him and taking him into her until he was rubbing at the back of her throat, and his fingers tried to dig into the floor beneath him as he forced himself to keep still.
She was taking her time, learning him, driving him to levels of insanity with her curiosity, her obvious pleasure in the act. She closed her lips around him, increasing the pressure, and he didn’t want to come that way, not in her mouth, not this time. He wanted to be tight inside her, so deep he wouldn’t know where he ended and she began. She was no innocent—she knew what she was doing, and she liked what she was doing. This was no great gift for him, as he’d first assumed. This was Sophie, taking what she wanted.
He was getting close, dangerously close, and cautiously, carefully, he lifted one hand to thread his fingers through her hair, not guiding her or forcing her, just caressing her as she sucked on him, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. She slid her hands under his balls, squeezing lightly, and lifted her head for a brief moment.
“Come in my mouth,” she whispered.
He no longer had a choice. His body bucked, and she held onto his hips, taking him in, everything, her fingernails digging into his skin, and as he exploded he thought he felt an answering orgasm ripple through her body as she straddled him.
She drew back, away from him, sprawling on the floor in what should have been graceless exhaustion but instead looked like pure sexual abandon. He’d climaxed, come hard in her mouth, but he wanted more from her, he wanted her every way he could have her, and this time it was for nobody’s pleasure but theirs.
It took him a moment to get his breath back. She moved, starting to crawl away from him, but he somehow found the speed and strength to stop her, catch her, his body covering hers from behind. He tore away her skimpy boxers and slid his hands between her legs. She was wet and swollen and ready, he was still hard, and he pulled her hips up, pushing into her.
She was tight, despite the wetness, and he tried to slow down, to make it easier for her, but when he was halfway in she suddenly shoved back, taking all of him with a small cry of pain and triumph. He held her like that, his hands on her hips, staring down at her elegant, narrow back, at the unmistakable scar of a bullet dangerously close to her spine. He wanted to give her time to get used to him, to stretch it out as long as he could, the sleek grasp of her cunt driving him to the point of madness. He wanted to slam in and out of her, but he knew he could hurt her, so he stayed very still, feeling her body relax around him, then tightening again, as her body recognized what it wanted, needed.
He didn’t know whether her brain was in agreement, and at that point he was past caring. He just needed to lose himself inside her. He could be slower now, take his time, stoking into her. It was too damned dark on the balcony—he wanted to see her—but he wasn’t taking the chance on Archer listening in. Slow and hard, and she was silent beneath him, only her body signaling her agreement, her pleasure. She came, too quickly, the walls of her sex clamping down on him, and he held still, letting her ride it, before he moved again.
She began to shiver, and he thought that if she dared to make any sound, she would have told him she couldn’t take any more, but he knew she could. That ripple of reaction was hardly strong enough to take her over the edge, give her the release she needed, and he kept up his steady pace, into her, deep, so deep, and he heard an almost imperceptible sound from the back of her throat. It made his cock swell even more inside her, and he slid his hand under them, finding her slick clitoris, circling it. She was shaking so hard he felt the need to hold her together, keep her safe, pushing, pushing, until she froze, a low, keening sound coming so quietly from within her, a s
ound more powerful than a full-throated scream, and he went over the edge with her.
He couldn’t hold himself up anymore—he was shaking as hard as she had been, and he fell onto the balcony, taking her with him, protecting her from the hard floor, still deep within her. His heart was racing—that never happened to him—and he pulled her deeper into him, holding her tight when he should have been withdrawing, moving away. It was over, and he couldn’t let her go.
She lay very still in his arms, still wracked by shudders, tiny orgasms shimmering through her body. He’d thought of her as the enemy, but right now she needed protection, and he held her, stroking her hair away from her damp face. This wasn’t the sex he was used to—the pleasurable buildup and satisfying release. This was something much more complicated, something he should have had the sense to avoid. His instincts had told him she was trouble, but he hadn’t imagined the half of it. He couldn’t let her go.