He growled, wrapping one arm around her waist, the other pressed against her shoulder blades, his hand buried in her hair. He pulled her down so that her mouth met his, his kiss fierce, uncontrolled.
Incredible.
He slid the hand that was resting on her back down to cup her bottom, then down farther between her thighs, stroking her slick flesh, teasing her entrance. She shivered, her legs growing weak, her stomach tight with need.
He pushed one finger inside her as he lowered his head and sucked a nipple deep into his mouth. The burst of pleasure exploded a pop of stars behind her eyes. It was so intense, so incredibly perfect. She wanted to ask him where he’d learned to do that, how he knew. But also, she didn’t want to know.
And she wouldn’t have been able to speak right now anyway.
He withdrew his finger, gripping her hips tight and positioning her over his arousal. “Now, Princess,” he said, his teeth clenched tightly together.
She lowered herself slowly onto him, relishing the feel of him filling her inch by beautiful inch. And once she was seated fully onto him, she simply stopped, relishing the feel. Relishing the sensation of being connected to another person. As close as they could be.
She took a deep breath, and opened her eyes, meeting his. Oh, she wasn’t just connected to anyone. She was connected to Andres. Her throat felt swollen, tight. And everything inside her felt right.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt as though she was at home. There had been the palace in Tirimia, but she couldn’t even think of it without feeling fear. Grief. Sadness. And the camp, with the clan, it had never been home. They had never been family. Protectors. Valued. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t this.
And it wasn’t Petras, or the palace here, and it certainly wasn’t this penthouse with the Peeping Tom floors.
It was him. Andres. Home was the place you always wanted to return to. He was where she wanted to return to. Always. No matter where he was, whether it was in a castle or a hovel, then it would be home.
“I... Oh, Andres.”
She couldn’t say anything more. Couldn’t get out the words that were swirling around inside her head. It was for the best. She was sure of that. She doubted it even made sense at the moment. She couldn’t even make sense of the things rioting around inside her.
He held her tightly, guiding her movements with his hands. She followed for a while, before establishing her own rhythm, rolling her hips forward as she raised herself up slightly, teasing them both by going slow. It was torture for her. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and ride him hard and fast until they both found release. But she didn’t want it to end.
She so didn’t want it to end.
She rocked back and forth, gratified when a tortured sounding moan escaped his lips, when his hands tightened on her hips, his fingertips digging into her flesh, hard enough that she imagined it might leave a mark. She hoped it did. She hoped that she wore evidence of this claiming when it was finished. That the stubble from his five-o’clock shadow left her skin red, that she would be able to see the impressions of his hands where he had held her tight.
She rocked against him again, and this time he growled. Feral, uncontrolled. As though she had brought him down to her level. She was always doing that. In the hall, in public at the palace, here in this place. But she wasn’t sorry.
She liked him like this. Uncontrolled, needing her. Wanting her as she wanted him.
No walls between them. Nothing separating them.
She felt at home. Finally.
He held more tightly on to her, and suddenly, she was being propelled backward. He lowered her slowly to the floor, settling between her thighs and thrusting into her hard and deep. She felt tied to the spot, trapped beneath his strength and weight. And she loved it.
His dark eyes bored into hers, and she was certain he could see all her secrets. See down deep. She wanted him to. She wanted him to untangle all the frightening, intense emotions that were brewing inside her, because she wasn’t certain if she could. She had no experience with this. Perhaps he did. He’d had lovers. Perhaps this was normal.
No.
Her heart rejected that thought. Immediately. Violently.
This wasn’t like his other times. She was certain of that. Because he had said he felt nothing with Francesca. Because he was with so many different women, so often. There was no way it could be this feeling. This, all the time and with different people, would surely consume a person. Which would surely eat him alive from the inside out.