Edge of Oblivion

She didn’t regret it, though, not really. Well, not yet. Because the Fever still burned like a swallowed sun within her, and even now her hormones were rising again like a tide. She let herself be carried with it, floating toward the inevitable, toward what they’d done over and over until finally they both had fallen into exhausted sleep and the pain she’d felt had—at last—subsided.

Now it was back. She needed him again. She’d worry about the consequences later.

She shifted beneath him, rolled to her side, pushed him to his back with a hand flat on his chest. He made a low sound in his throat and stretched—she felt it, the way his muscles lengthened and pulled taut and shivered, then relaxed—but didn’t wake. She nuzzled her nose into his neck, and his arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

He mumbled something in his sleep that sounded like her name.

She trailed her fingers over the expanse of his chest, over the field of hatch marks, over the bare mark above his left nipple she assumed would soon be filled. She pushed the thought aside and let her fingers drift farther down, over the bandage still wrapped around his waist, over the hard, flat muscles of his lower belly, over the downy trail of hair that led from his belly button straight down to the curling soft patch of hair and the erection already hot and throbbing stiff against her hand.

“I told you that you’d be the death of me,” he murmured into her hair. She couldn’t help it: she giggled.

“All’s fair in love and war,” she quipped.

She felt him come wide awake. She looked up into his eyes, warm, endless amber, shadowed by those dark lashes.

“We’re not at war,” he said, very serious, and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.

“Not until the sun’s up,” she reminded him, stroking her fingertips down his hard shaft. The skin there was so soft, the softest thing she’d ever felt, like silk poured over steel.

He shuddered, frowning, and pulled her closer. “Not ever,” he whispered into her ear.

She found a rhythm with her hand, coaxing a response from him, coaxing his hips into that push and pull that she so loved, the masculinity of it, the raw power. He pressed a kiss to her temple, her cheek. She stroked him until his breathing was ragged and he kissed her on the mouth, hard and demanding.

He said something to her in that language of his—musical, magical Portuguese—and her hand slowed. Her fingers gently squeezed and released, exploring, teasing. He groaned, his face turned to her hair.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re driving me insane.”

“No, what you just said.” She ran her fingers over a throbbing vein on the underside of his shaft, around and around the full head atop, and he groaned again, louder. Her own breathing grew irregular; she loved him like this. Like putty in her hands. Hard putty.

He framed her face in his hands, kissed her again, deeply. “It means,” he said, almost panting, “don’t stop.”

It had been far too long to simply mean “don’t stop,” but she didn’t push it—she was distracted now by his hand on her breast, pinching her nipple, drifting down to stroke the soft wetness between her legs.

She gasped when his finger slid inside her, and she saw the flash of his teeth when he grinned.

“Two can play at this game, love.”

It thrilled her, hearing that word on his lips. Love. She hid it by turning her face to his chest and nipping his nipple. He jerked and yelped, “Ow!”

She flicked her tongue out and licked where her teeth had just been, sucking and kissing, stroking with her tongue. He relaxed back against the mattress with a low moan, and she kept on, kissing her way down his chest, running her hands over his skin, rubbing her cheek against his belly, reticulated muscles hard against her face. He shuddered as she kissed him there, brushing her lips across the ridges of his abs, dipping her tongue into his belly button. He slid his hands into her hair, pushed it off her face so he could watch her.

She looked up at him, mischievous. As he watched, stiff and breathless, eyes wide, she trailed her tongue lower, lower, until she felt his heat and hardness against the column of her throat. Holding his gaze, she cupped him in her palm, licked her lips, and watched him tremble.

“Should I keep going?” she whispered, teasing, already knowing what his answer would be before he nodded emphatically yes.

She dipped her chin, flicked her tongue out, and slid it over and around that hard, velvet head.

He gasped. Then she lowered her head and took him into her mouth, sucking and greedy and wanting to hear him moan.

He did, loudly. He arched from the mattress, his head kicked back into the pillow, his hands tightened in her hair, trembling, hot. He moaned her name and she loved the sound of it, loved the power she felt, the way he moved, instinctive and helpless in her hands, in her mouth, the taste of him and his heat and smoky scent—

He dragged her atop him and without preliminaries, with only a swift, hard motion of his hips, impaled her so deep their pelvic bones met.

Morgan heard him moan her name again, shuddering beneath her, but she was somewhere else, drunk with pleasure and heat and this new curling hunger that rose up inside her like a wave, like a demon, dark and devouring. She began to move atop him, rocking, making tiny circles with her pelvis, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, the air cool against her burning skin, the smell of rain and lightning in the air. His hands lifted to cup her breasts, he murmured something unintelligible. It sounded like a plea. She didn’t stop; she couldn’t. She was outside herself. She was floating.

He sat up and grasped her around the waist. She grabbed hold of his shoulders and took him even deeper inside, met his thrusts with her own, arched back against his knees, opening to him like a flower. Her hair spilled down his spread legs.

White fire and aching, friction and stroking, the sound of his beautiful voice muffled against her breasts as he kissed her there, urgent, warm lips on her nipples, drawing against her skin. The culmination was rushing at her, bright as a comet, and she was gasping, shaking, saying his name—

“Look at me,” he said, hoarse, and cupped her face in his hands.

Morgan opened her eyes. He was gazing up at her, a look of something like anguish on his beautiful face. “Oh—God—I’m almost—I’m—”

“I want to see you. I want to watch you. Let me watch it happen.” His voice was soft, so soft, almost as tender as his eyes, and it broke her apart.

Half moan, half sob, and she was over the edge, shuddering and shattering and staring down into his face, alarmed at the moisture swimming in her eyes, helpless to stop it.

“Yes, baby, yes,” he whispered, reverent, as her body clenched around his.

He was so beautiful to her then, rapt and wide-eyed at the pleasure he was witnessing—the pleasure he was giving her—that it hurt—it hurt. It burned like acid in her throat.

She started to cry.

“Goddammit,” she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder.

He stilled, tightened his arms around her. “It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, sobbing harder. “It’s not going to be okay! Don’t say that! Don’t lie to me!”

“Shhh.”

He cradled her, he rocked her, he stroked his hands down her back and smoothed her hair. All she could do was hide her face and shake in his arms. He was still inside her, still throbbing hot, unrelieved, and though she wanted to run away and hide he was so warm and so strong and so...damn...wonderful.

God, he was wonderful.

“I h-hate you,” she sobbed against his shoulder.

“I know,” he murmured, stroking her. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “I know.”

He let her calm down, let the crying slow, then stop. He eased her down onto the mattress and settled beside her, brushed her tears away with his knuckles, kissed her hot cheeks. He gazed deep into her eyes and softly said, “I hate you, too, beautiful girl. So much.” He brushed his lips against hers, barely stroking, tender. “So much.”

She bit her lip, turned away. She couldn’t take it—the emotion was too crushing, too terrible, too