“You want to go back to your fingers, Reckless?”
“God, no…” Even as the denial poured out of her, this struck her as a risky thing to do. Self-sufficiency was kind of key to her way of life, and lying under him, reeling from the perfect fullness of his penetration, quivering for more, felt about as far from self-sufficient as a girl could get. Forget nicotine. What if West became her drug of choice?
That errant question triggered an instinct to hold back, if only to confirm she still could.
Maybe he saw something in her expression, or maybe he read her mind, because he stretched out over her, supporting his weight on his forearms, leaving her folded like an accordion beneath him. With a slow roll of his hips, he surged into her again. Not as deep, but ruthlessly calculated to tantalize her with everything he withheld. She lay back, impaled by his determined gaze and devastating cock.
“If you need something inside you, that’s my job. Trust me to do it right this time.”
But he didn’t trust her, and he was right not to. She squirmed, trying to take him in and lock him out at the same time. “You don’t know me.”
“I don’t know you? That’s bullshit, Roxy Belle Goodhart. You like swimming holes and summer storms. Red is your favorite color, and music lives in your soul. You’d give someone in need the shirt off your back, but you have a hard time accepting a hand yourself. And right about now, you’d very much like me to shut up and fuck you. How’m I doing so far?”
“Impressive, Officer,” she managed, barely, and then grabbed handfuls of the sheet when he pulled out again.
“West,” he corrected and dug an elbow into the bed to brace his weight so he could trace her lower lip with a fingertip. “I want to see your mouth form my name. I want to hear you scream it when you come.” He punctuated his demands with another perfectly calculated thrust.
She bit her lip against the need to cry out for more…faster…harder. Impatience came at a cost, she was learning, and if he pulled out again, she might just orgasm right there, empty and enflamed by the ruthless taunt of his cock. He slid his hand down and cupped her where their bodies joined, squeezed until all she could feel was his hard, hot length lodged inside her.
Their reflection in the mirror went blurry for a moment as a new wave of need washed over her, and she did cry out. He waited until she quieted, and her attention refocused on him. “Are you ready for a proper fucking, Roxy?”
Her throat closed. All she could do was nod.
Apparently, that was sufficient, because West started to move. His body slid over hers, into hers. His hips pistoned, pinning hers to the mattress, releasing, pinning, pinning and releasing.
Daylight streamed in through the edges of the drapes, highlighting the notch of concentration carved in West’s brow, the shoulder and arm muscles that bunched and flexed with every move he made.
The waves came faster. Her body struggled to catch one. Catch it and ride it to heaven or hell or wherever it cast her. She flung an arm above her head. The woman in the mirror did the same, reached toward her like a rescuer, but all she succeeded in catching was air.
West cupped her jaw. “Who’s fucking you, Roxy?”
“West…”
His finger brushed her lips. “Again,” he growled.
“West,” she gasped. His hips moved like lightning. Waves stormed her now, drowned her in a sea of sensation. “West.”
He groaned and pushed two fingers past her lips, past her teeth, and pressed them against her tongue.
“Who?” He thrust deep. His gaze locked with hers.
She couldn’t speak around his fingers. Couldn’t catch her breath. A surge of pleasure lifted her high—terrifyingly high—so all she could do was cry out, which she did, loud enough to rattle her eardrums. And then she was coming. Not just coming, but ugly-coming, in a moaning, shaking, flushed-faced rush. From somewhere beyond the anarchy of her orgasm, she felt West pull his fingers from her mouth. Suddenly un-muffled, her moan became a wail, and it soared an octave when he reared back and lifted her hips off the bed. Her head slipped farther off the mattress, and for half a second she feared she might fall. But his grip held her fast, pulling her hips to his and buffeting her with a series of furious thrusts that turned her moan into a choppy staccato and their reflection into a blur. Just as unexpectedly, he shallowed his thrusts to rapid, measured bursts of energy. The blurry image in the mirror sharpened. He rose above her, skin gleaming with sweat, head thrown back, throat working. She watched, mesmerized, as his breath stalled and a shudder wracked his unshakable frame. Her name flooded her ears in a long, low groan.
Chapter Thirteen
Move your ass, Donovan.
West’s mind issued the order, but the rest of him refused to obey. He lay sprawled on Roxy, his exhausted cock still happily ensconced inside her. Maybe she liked a lingerer, maybe she didn’t, but his dead weight definitely made it impossible for her to assert much of a preference—possibly made it difficult for her to breathe. That thought rebooted his offline nervous system. He kissed the side of her neck where a pulse fluttered then eased away. Their sweat-glued skin separated reluctantly. He pinched the condom with one hand and rolled off her. She sighed as he withdrew—relief or regret—and then let out a deeper, shorter sound when his weight landed on the mattress and jostled the noise from her.
While he took a tissue from the box on his nightstand and dealt with the condom, she
