cheek, and I said, “Ow, too much teeth, too soon.”
He licked over where he’d bitten. “You’ll like it later,” he said.
“Probably, but not yet.”
“Lie down, on your back, on the bench.”
“It’s a really narrow bench,” I said, and turned enough so I could look down at him. He looked up at me, his blond hair falling over his face, that one blue eye staring up at me. His face already held that darkness, that surety that most men’s eyes get at some point when the clothes are coming off and the sex is happening. It’s not exactly possessive, but yet it is, but it is predatory, and it wasn’t just because Nicky was a werelion. It wasn’t a shapeshifter look, or a vampire look, it was a male look. Maybe women had their own version, but I rarely saw my own face in a mirror during sex, and I had only one other woman to compare to, and she didn’t have a look like this one.
I stared down into Nicky’s face, and he stared up at me and let me see in his face what he wanted to do to me. “Get on the bench, Anita.”
I didn’t argue again.
33
THE BENCH WAS narrow, but Nicky pointed out, “You do ab work on the incline bench, just hold on.” I put my hands behind me next to my head and held on. Our clothes had ended up in a pile on the floor. He did me by hand, using his fingers to find that sweet spot that was possible from the undignified angle of me on the bench, legs up and half bent, him holding one leg so that he could put one knee on the bench and get the angle his fingers needed to stroke over and over, fast and faster, that sweet spot inside me. He brought me screaming, fighting my body to hold on to the bench and not forget that if I let go, I’d fall.
He moved his fingers out of me, and between my legs to find that other sweet spot that was outside. My words came out breathy, as I said, “Fuck me.”
“Not yet,” he said, and his voice was growling deep again.
“Why not?” I breathed.
He stroked over and around me, staring at my face as he did it. “Because I’ve seen what the other men in your bed do to you, Anita. I want you to want me, and that means I have to bring my
It was hard to think with his fingers playing with me, but I tried. “I enjoy you. You’re… great.”
“You’ve got at least two lovers who are better at oral sex than I am. You’ve got two who are bigger than I am.”
I started to try to comfort him, but he said, “I’m okay, I don’t have to be the biggest boy in your bed.” He started moving his fingers faster, a little harder. The pleasure began to build between my legs, and my face must have shown it, because he grinned. “Yeah, that’s it. I love that look on your face.”
One moment the weight was building, and the next, that wave of pleasure burst over me, poured through me, danced over my skin, my body, as if every muscle, every piece of me had become nothing but the joy, the sensation of it. I shrieked, head back, back trying to arch against the bench. Nicky called out, “Anita!” His hand was suddenly pressing against my sternum, pressing, holding me to the bench, while I rode the orgasm, and his fingers kept it going, until I lay boneless, eyes fluttering, and blind with the pleasure of it.
He was laughing, that deep, masculine chuckle that men have inside them when they are particularly pleased with themselves, usually about sex.
I tried to see me, tried to force my eyes to work, and the world not to be soft-edged and blurry, but another aftershock made me writhe on the bench, and Nicky’s hands were wrapping around me, lifting me.
I had time to try to make my arms work enough to hold on to his arms. He moved both his hands down to my thighs and lifted me slightly, and then he sat me down on top of him, and slid the tip of him inside me. It stole the breath from my throat, too soon after the last orgasm, so that the sensation of him sliding inside me, his hands controlling how slow he entered me, was almost overwhelming. It felt so good, so… my eyes fluttered shut again, my hands convulsing on his arms, trying to hold me where he wanted me, while he guided our bodies together.
When he was as deep inside me as he could go, he said, “God, that feels so amazing.”
I managed to gasp, “Yes, oh, yes.”
Then he bent forward, pressing me back onto the bench with his body still buried as deep inside me as he could go.
“We’ll fall,” I said. The thought was helping clear my head a little.
“Hold on to my arms, I’ve got this.”
I did what he asked, and the happy after-fog was drifting away on my very real fear we would fall off the narrow bench.
He raised my hips a little, angling my legs up and to either side. He steadied me while I found the angle I wanted with him on top, and then he put his hands on either side of me, wrapping them around the edges of the bench, in a reverse grip of what I’d done earlier. He stayed sitting up, his legs on either side of the bench, my legs on either side of his hips and waist, and he began to move himself in and out of me.
“On the bench,” I said, eyes a little wide and not just from afterglow.
“On the bench,” he said, and he raised his hips a little, lengthening out his upper body above me like a roof of muscle and flesh. His arms were moving with the rhythm of his body inside mine, and I transferred my grip back to the bench, one careful hand at a time. Once I wasn’t holding on to him, he changed his angle and started finding a serious, quick, deep rhythm. I watched his body work above mine, only his hips and that long, hard piece of him touching me at all. Technically with the man above me it was supposed to be missionary position, but this was as far from that as you could get and still have the man on top.
The long fall of his bangs began to swing forward at the downstroke so that I could see the smooth, creased scar tissue where his other eye would have been. It was only when he was on top, and only at certain angles that I got to see his whole face above me. I’d come to value those glimpses of all of him. I watched the concentration on his face, that distant inward looking, which was his version of trying to last, trying to prolong the amazing things his body was doing inside mine.
He glanced down at me, truly seeing me. He gave a fierce smile and said, in a voice breathy with strain, “You are way too in control. I’m not doing my job.”
I don’t know what I would have said, because he sped up what he was doing, driving himself faster, harder, but the bench was too narrow, too hard, too something for pounding. He changed to a rolling, stroking rhythm of his hips, proving that he could dance, even with me on my back. It was a softer orgasm than it would have been if he’d just pounded me thoroughly. It built more like a clitoral orgasm, so that I could feel it getting closer.
My voice showed the strain of holding my position on the bench, keeping my arms tensed and holding, while he danced in and out of me, but I managed to say, “Getting close.”
“Good,” he said, but his eye was closed, he wasn’t watching me anymore. His face had that deep, internal look again, but closing his eye meant he was fighting his body, fighting to keep the wonderful rolling, dancing rhythm, to hold us on the bench, to hold on until I came underneath him, fighting to keep everything moving, and not to lose his concentration now, not now, when he’d done so much work to get us to this moment.
Then from one stroke to another, the orgasm caught me, flung me screaming, writhing underneath him. My hands on the bench jerked and fought with the rest of my body, because my hands wanted to rise up and mark his body with my pleasure.
His voice growled over me, “God, God!” He shoved his body one more time so hard and solid that it made me cry out again, and I couldn’t decide if it was a new orgasm, or if it was just an extra ending for the first one.
He growled at me, his face wild with it, and his eye lion-orange, his humanity slipping away as he shuddered and growled above me. One last shudder ran through his body from shoulders to hips, making me cry out again, because he was still shoved deep inside me as he shivered.
He half-collapsed over me, head dipping down so that his bangs brushed my face. I could feel the frantic pulse of his body in the side of his neck, the pounding of his heart just above me. He whisper-growled, “You didn’t
