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“Fuck.”
Malone’s voice anchors me to him, and I spin back in, gasping for breath, trying to move and I can’t.
Slowly, I become aware the vibrator is no longer forcing orgasms and waves of needling goodness so sharp, it’s a throb of almost pain. And my back and ass and thighs radiate heat. Even more as his hand smooths over me, a balm of touch.
“Breathe.”
I gasp from my toes, a sound that wrenches the world apart. He’s pressed against me. I cling to that.
“Fuck,” he says again. “You’re exquisite. A work of art. I need to hang you up, suspend you. We’re going to do that.”
His voice is wired, hot, excitement running through it. Need supercharging every word.
“Ass or cunt?”
“What?”
“You know what. Where do you want me? Ass or cunt?”
“I can’t. Malone…” But the quiver of need starts up again, and he flips me onto my back, and I cry out.
He leans over me and takes my mouth in a slow kiss, one that melts, that seduces. I can’t help but kiss him back. The man’s mouth is pure magic, and the things he stirs in me, the roller coaster his kisses put my stomach on, are swoon worthy, especially after that intense session.
I can’t call it sex.
Or even getting off.
It was something else.
And right now, the magic of his kiss, the slow slide of his tongue, the heat and soft touch of his mouth is what I need. Like the stroke of his hands, it soothes, calms, caresses.
His kiss is the calm lap of a warm, clear sea over toes; it’s sliding down into a heated bath. It’s his mouth on mine, and it’s utterly dreamy, and I’m falling down all over again.
Nothing can stand up against the wicked type of onslaught Malone has. He’s everything at once and then the perfect thing I need.
When he lifts his head, he slips his hand up to my throat. It’s a comforting feeling, that hand, resting there, a slight pressure, but not one that cuts off my air. It’s like a claim, and my rational brain can hate being claimed all it likes, but I want it.
Right now, I want to be claimed and owned and branded by him.
He strokes his thumb against the pulse in my throat.
“Your heart’s beating wild. Do you like it when my hand’s here?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“You’d look amazing in a collar. Maybe I’ll get one for you.”
There are things I want to ask, things I want to say, but I swallow them down. This is a moment, and I don’t want to destroy it by asking questions I already know the answer to.
This is sex talk, nothing else.
This is temporary, him and me.
It was never supposed to be anything more.
So I stay silent.
“I’m going to fuck you. Hard. How do you want me?” He stares at me for a long minute, then gets up and moves toward the couch opposite me. When he returns, he has more rope in his hand.
