Modern Romance November 2015 Books 1-4. Trish Morey
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this for her, and she had found it immeasurably pleasurable, the return would be just as successful.
She leaned in, examining him, her heart thundering. She ached for him already, her breasts feeling hypersensitive, needy for his touch. But she would have to wait. She would have to be patient. He had done what she’d asked. Exactly what she’d asked. And now she felt the need to demonstrate her appreciation.
She wasn’t completely sure where to start, so she figured following instinct was the best way to go. She tilted her head, sliding the flat of her tongue along the hardened length of his shaft. She was startled by the forceful feeling of his fingers in her hair, holding her suddenly, tightly. “Zara,” he said, his voice rough.
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked.
She was held immobile by his strong grip, unable to look at his face. Which was probably for the best. He had so much experience, it was very likely that her efforts were laughable, and she would have no idea. But he would. He would be well aware.
“No. But you don’t have to...”
“I want to.”
He groaned, and though he didn’t release his hold, he loosened it. She leaned in again, returning to her original plan, taking a long, leisurely taste of him. She heard air hiss through his teeth, and she chose to take it as a positive sign, continuing in her exploration of his body. She shifted positions, wrapping her hand around the base of him, holding him steady as she took him into her mouth. He was soft, and smooth, but very hard. Hot. Not at all like what she’d imagined.
The desperation returned. The desire to know every bit of him. Every part of him.
She took him in deeper, relishing the breathy, uncontrolled sound of pleasure that he made. Paying close attention to the way his thigh muscles began to shake beneath her hand. She could feel his tension, running through every line of his body. Feel it echoing within her.
And suddenly, this wasn’t enough. She needed more of him. All of him. She slowly rose to her feet, unhooking her bra and casting it to the floor before gripping the sides of her panties and drawing them down her legs, kicking them to the side. She decided to leave the shoes on, if only because it felt like a strange, illicit novelty.
She approached the couch, bending at the waist and gripping the back of it, just behind his shoulders, before lifting one knee and planting it beside his thigh, then doing the same with the other.
He growled, wrapping one arm around her waist, the other pressed against her shoulder blades, his hand buried in her hair. He pulled her down so that her mouth met his, his kiss fierce, uncontrolled.
Incredible.
He slid the hand that was resting on her back down to cup her bottom, then down farther between her thighs, stroking her slick flesh, teasing her entrance. She shivered, her legs growing weak, her stomach tight with need.
He pushed one finger inside her as he lowered his head and sucked a nipple deep into his mouth. The burst of pleasure exploded a pop of stars behind her eyes. It was so intense, so incredibly perfect. She wanted to ask him where he’d learned to do that, how he knew. But also, she didn’t want to know.
And she wouldn’t have been able to speak right now anyway.
He withdrew his finger, gripping her hips tight and positioning her over his arousal. “Now, Princess,” he said, his teeth clenched tightly together.
She lowered herself slowly onto him, relishing the feel of him filling her inch by beautiful inch. And once she was seated fully onto him, she simply stopped, relishing the feel. Relishing the sensation of being connected to another person. As close as they could be.
She took a deep breath, and opened her eyes, meeting his. Oh, she wasn’t just connected to anyone. She was connected to Andres. Her throat felt swollen, tight. And everything inside her felt right.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt as though she was at home. There had been the palace in Tirimia, but she couldn’t even think of it without feeling fear. Grief. Sadness. And the camp, with the clan, it had never been home. They had never been family. Protectors. Valued. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t this.
And it wasn’t Petras, or the palace here, and it certainly wasn’t this penthouse with the Peeping Tom floors.
It was him. Andres. Home was the place you always wanted to return to. He was where she wanted to return to. Always. No matter where he was, whether it was in a castle or a hovel, then it would be home.
“I... Oh, Andres.”
She couldn’t say anything more. Couldn’t get out the words that were swirling around inside her head. It was for the best. She was sure of that. She doubted it even made sense at the moment. She couldn’t even make sense of the things rioting around inside her.
He held her tightly, guiding her movements with his hands. She followed for a while, before establishing her own rhythm, rolling her hips forward as she raised herself up slightly, teasing them both by going slow. It was torture for her. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and ride him hard and fast until they both found release. But she didn’t want it to end.
She so didn’t want it to end.
She rocked back and forth, gratified when a tortured sounding moan escaped his lips, when his hands tightened on her hips, his fingertips digging into her flesh, hard enough that she imagined it might leave a mark. She hoped it did. She hoped that she wore evidence of this claiming when it was finished. That the stubble from his five-o’clock shadow left her skin red, that she would be able to see the impressions of his hands where he had held her tight.
She rocked against him again, and this time he growled. Feral, uncontrolled. As though she had brought him down to her level. She was always doing that. In the hall, in public at the palace, here in this place. But she wasn’t sorry.
She liked him like this. Uncontrolled, needing her. Wanting her as she wanted him.
No walls between them. Nothing separating them.
She felt at home. Finally.
He held more tightly on to her, and suddenly, she was being propelled backward. He lowered her slowly to the floor, settling between her thighs and thrusting into her hard and deep. She felt tied to the spot, trapped beneath his strength and weight. And she loved it.
His dark eyes bored into hers, and she was certain he could see all her secrets. See down deep. She wanted him to. She wanted him to untangle all the frightening, intense emotions that were brewing inside her, because she wasn’t certain if she could. She had no experience with this. Perhaps he did. He’d had lovers. Perhaps this was normal.
No.
Her heart rejected that thought. Immediately. Violently.
This wasn’t like his other times. She was certain of that. Because he had said he felt nothing with Francesca. Because he was with so many different women, so often. There was no way it could be this feeling. This, all the time and with different people, would surely consume a person. Which would surely eat him alive from the inside out.
It was only him, and only her, and still it was going to devour her.
He held tightly to her hips as he drove deep. The tile was cold, hard beneath the bare skin of her back, but she didn’t care. She was with Andres, and so she felt perfect. Even though her skin felt too tight for her body, even though all the things in her chest felt too large to be contained. Somehow there was all of that, and still she was perfect.
Everything with him was like that. Contradicting each other, complementing each other, being too much, not enough and yet just right.
The pleasure that was blooming in her stomach grew, expanded. She couldn’t breathe, could scarcely handle the sensation that was spreading through her veins, bleeding outward, crackling over her skin like an electric current.
Andres lowered his head, his hold on her tightening as he growled, pushing inside