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We have an understanding now, me and Archer’s cock. I fondle it, and it gives me what I want—Archer, weak-kneed and groaning for me.
Which is perhaps why he only allows me a couple of strokes before he draws up both my hands and traps my wrists above my head.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he says, and his voice is almost a purr against my mouth.
I bite my lips against a smile. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll use my belt to tie them down.”
I don’t know why, but the second that thought enters my end, I begin to throb. I whimper and try to squeeze my thighs together, but they’re splayed apart, my legs on either side of Archer’s hips.
He grins at my reaction. “Perhaps you’d like that too much.”
I struggle just a little, just to feel the resistance. Belt or no, I’m immobilized underneath him. His grip is like a steel trap, his hand completely clamped around both of my wrists. I’m not going anywhere.
He touches me. His fingertips trail from the hollow of my throat, between my collar bones, and between my breasts. His touch is featherlight, until he finds the hardened pebble of my nipple. He pinches it, and I gasp. He flicks it, and this time my hips jerk upward once, rutting against empty air.
“Please,” I hear myself gasp.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is stern but not angry. He’s coaxing me. Pulling me out of my shell, inch by inch.
“I want you inside of me,” I confess.
He opens me. First with his tongue—pushing my lips apart, drawing me into a deep kiss. He draws my leg over his hip and guides himself to my entrance. My heart starts to hammer in my chest—will he fit inside of me? What if I’m too tight? What if it hurts and I can’t handle it?
A flurry of anxiety suddenly whirls inside of me. Archer reads me. He nuzzles the tip of his cock against me but doesn’t enter. Not yet. Instead, he whispers against my lips, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then relax.”
He’s right. I do trust him. He kisses me, our tongues tangling, and I let my limbs go heavy, my wrists going limp in his hand. My thigh relaxes around his hip, my spine melts into the mattress, and I start to take him inside of me.
He’s so big, and for a second, the girth of him takes my breath away. There’s a pinch, and I inhale sharply. He covers my face in kisses—my lips, my eyes, and my cheeks, which I don’t realize are wet until I feel his lips brush my tears.
“You’re almost there,” he murmurs.
There’s more of him. How can I fit more of him? And then he groans. I’m so full with him that my chest feels tight.
“Breathe,” he reminds me, and I do.
He doesn’t move at first, and slowly, I start to adjust to him. The stretch melts into a low heat, and when he starts to roll his hips, that heat turns into smoldering pleasure.
His breath is light and shallow on the side of my throat. He’s holding himself back while I take in the newness of him.
He pivots his hips and hits a spot that sends a bolt of heat through me. I moan. He nestles against me, his beard scratching my cheek.
“Please let me touch you,” I whisper, my voice suddenly tight with the need of it.
He releases my wrists, moving his palm to the mattress instead to stabilize himself. I put my palms on his chest, and then down his sides, his abdomen. His skin is furnace hot. I ground myself in him, the strength of him. His body was made to be a weapon, perhaps, sculpted by boot camp and Catherine Rossi’s vigorous demands, but here, between the sheets, he wields it only to pleasure me.
And pleasure me he does. My fingers tighten, and my toes curl into the sheets underneath me.
“I can take more,” I tell him.
He grunts and begins to thrust with more force inside of me. Each swing of his hips takes the breath out of my lungs. Heat builds and coils through me, and I find myself lifting my body to meet his, matching his pace.
We roll together, his breath light on my lips. Then he reaches his free hand between my legs, underneath my bush, and nestles his fingers against my needy little clit. I’m moaning. Whimpering. I can’t think. I can’t focus on anything except the swing of his hips, the ministrations of his fingers, and the pounding of my own heart. I grip him, his sides, his shoulders, his face, his hair. Needing to dig my fingers into his skin. I want to smother myself in him, this man I trust—
