She could. And he was indeed ready—thick, and hard, and pulsing with heat. Suddenly thankful she wasn't wearing any panties, she climbed onto the bed and straddled him, pressing herself against the heat of him, sliding him back and forth through her slickness. He began to move with her, and she stopped.
'Don't,' she said softly, 'move. Just stay still. This one is for me, and me alone.'
He didn't say anything, just watched her, an intentness in his gaze that sent a delicious thrill down her spine. She continued to hold his gaze and began to slide up and down his shaft again, watching his pupils dilate with desire and lust, until the blue was almost gone and all that was left was black ringed by silver. Which was odd when his eyes were blue.
But she really wasn't worried by oddities right now, but rather how damn fine everything was feeling. She closed her eyes, concentrating on sensation, concentrating on sliding him back and forth, teasingly touching all the right places, but never for long enough. Pleasure spiraled, and her breath caught, then quickened. She hadn't intended to fly solo all the way, but right now, she just couldn't stop. It felt too good. He felt too good, just sliding back and forth, back and forth. A shudder ran through her, and she rubbed against him harder as the sweet pressure began to build low in her stomach and flutter upwards.
'Look at me,' he demanded, voice harsh, raw.
She opened her eyes. His gaze consumed her, burned her.
The scent of his need swam around her, flaying her skin, flaying her senses, until all she could feel, all she could smell, was his desire. His body quivered beneath her, as if demanding she unleash him, take him. She didn't, losing herself instead to the rapture and power of denying him pleasure, denying them both that moment of complete oneness while at the same time satisfying her own needs.
And even though his frustration lashed at her, there was also something fierce in his eyes, as if what she was doing was exactly what he wanted her to do. And that, somehow, he was deriving almost as much pleasure by watching her take what she needed as he would have if he were inside her.
The thought became lost as the waves of pleasure rose and rose, until they were a molten force that would not be denied.
Yet even as her orgasm ripped through her, some small part of her half-wished it was Grey she rode, that it was Grey whom she would soon allow to pleasure her anyway he damn well pleased.
Trust her to be landed with hormones that could never be happy with what they had.
When the trembling eased, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sweat glimmered across the warm gold of his skin, and his body trembled beneath her. His gaze was fierce, hungry. Demanding. A tremor that was all anticipation ran through her. What was still to come would be good. Real good.
'Satisfied?' His voice was a growl that rumbled right through her.
She allowed a small smile to touch her lips. 'If you mean am I satisfied that you're willing to let a woman take complete control in the bedroom, then yes, most definitely.
'Good.' He tugged on the rope, freeing his hands. 'Your turn.'
Another tremor of excitement ran through her. The edge in his voice, the heat in his eyes, suggested that her turn would be a long, drawn out seduction, despite the fact that he was quivering with need.
And women had turned away from this man? What kind of fools were they?
She silently offered him her hands. He looped the silken rope around her wrists, then undid the rope around his ankles and shifted so she could lie down.
'On your stomach,' he said, voice still rough.
She obeyed, and he straddled her, the heat of him brushing her skin as he leaned forward and loosely looped the rope around the middle post of the headboard.
Then he said, his words little more than a whisper of warmth past her ear, 'You will beg me to give you what you denied me.'
'I don't beg for anyone,' she replied, knowing even as she said it that in her present state, begging was high on the agenda if she didn't get what her body demanded.
'We'll see.' His voice held a confidence that made her quiver deep inside. And that quiver had absolutely nothing to do with fear.
She closed her eyes, waiting for his touch. A top popped, and the warm aroma of citrus and sunshine stung the air. She cracked open an eye. What were the odds of two men wanting to do the exact same thing to her?
Then his oiled hands slid over her back, and the question was rolled away by pleasure. She closed her eyes again, all but purring as his fingers worked magic up her back and across her shoulders. By the time he'd finished she wanted him badly, and she couldn't help groaning in frustration when he climbed off.
'And what was wrong with finishing as we were?'
'The fact that you're not ready to beg me for it yet.' He slapped her butt lightly. Even the sting of his hand on her flesh had excitement flushing through her body. 'Turn around.'
She did. He moved down to her feet, tying them spread-
eagled, then started the whole massaging process all over again. It was a sensual and erotic experience that had her panting with need and aching like crazy. But still she wasn't ready to beg, and the dangerous glint in his eyes suggested he had no intention of moving on until she did. Part of her did want to give him that, to just beg so she could feel the thick heat of him inside. She needed that, needed him thrusting deep, so very, very deep… and yet, there was also something undeniably exquisite in the torture of waiting. In letting the moment, the tension, and the desire build, until there was nothing between them but urgency and need. She might not be far from that point, but she hadn't reached it yet. And obviously, neither had he.
He reached across her and placed the oil back on the bedside table. 'Beg for me,' he said softly, his words warm whispers across her lips.
'No,' she whispered back, then kissed him.
There was nothing soft, nothing sweet, about this kiss, and yet it was incredibly passionate. It was the kiss of lovers, not two strangers making love.
And then he was inside, driving deep, and she was arching up to meet him, wanting everything he could give, as hard and as fast as he could give it.
Only he didn't give her anything else, just pulled out of her, leaving her empty and aching. His teeth nipped her bottom lip lightly when she opened her mouth to protest.
'Beg for me,' he whispered again.
'No,' she panted, squirming beneath him, trying to recapture his cock and drive him home again.
Only she didn't need to. The words were barely out of her mouth when he was ramming hard inside her again. This time, he stroked several times before withdrawing. The man obviously had amazing control.
'Give me what I want,' he said, his gaze holding hers, fiercely determined.
'No,' she said, wondering why she felt it was so important that she kept resisting. Damn it, she wanted to be fucked hard, he wanted to oblige, and all she had to do was open her mouth and say please.
But something deep inside had decided resistance was important.
He shifted, moving to one side, then slid his hand down her body and into her slickness. She shuddered, enjoying his caress, the press of fingers against her heated, aching flesh.
Enjoying the feel of them sliding in and out, in and out, as his thumb flicked teasingly across her clit. Teasing her, making her ache, making her tremble and moan. And stopping each and every time she came close to orgasm.
He didn't ask her again, but in the end, she had no choice but to give him what he wanted. Not when her body was screaming for completion.
'Please,' she panted, 'I need you… want you… inside.'
He slid over the top of her, his grin wicked. Victorious. 'Are you begging me, Eryn?'
'Yes.' God, yes. 'Just do it.'
With one swift, hard stroke, he was inside, and it felt so good she could only groan. Then he began to move, thrusting deep and strong, and it was fierce, and passionate, and so damn good she wanted to scream.
And though she could barely even breathe let alone scream, she knew this was what had been missing in her love life up to now—a sense of connection that almost seemed spiritual. She could feel him, not just inside her body, but on the outskirts of her thoughts. As if the linking of flesh had somehow linked their minds. Emotions
