C12 Impaled

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She stood to take off her panties, embarrassed at her gaucheness but trying hard to keep the latest spurt of panic at bay.

But when she turned back to him, he had lost the T-shirt and eased down his shorts... Her heart bounced into her throat and became wedged between her thighs simultaneously.

Oh, my.

She let her gaze drift over his physique, attempting to gather her wits and slow her racing pulse as she took in the strong bulge of muscle and sinew, the toned, tanned flesh, the small scars and imperfections—which only added to the savage masculine beauty of his body. The name tattooed across his pec still fascinated her, as well as the sprinkle of hair that surrounded his nipples, then tapered into a line through washboard abs, which were even more magnificent now, gilded in firelight.

‘You want to sit back on my lap?’ he prompted.

Her gaze lifted to his amused expression. Fire scorched her cheeks. Could he see, did he know, she had never done this before?

Just get on with it, then.

She forced a smile to her own lips.

‘I’m just admiring the view first,’ she managed. Then reached out to touch him.

He sucked in a breath, his stomach tensing. The long, thick erection thrust upwards, as if it had a life of its own. Had it got even bigger in the last few seconds?

‘You may have to hurry up,’ he muttered, his voice strained. ‘Or I’m seriously gonna embarrass myself here.’

The pained announcement had her own embarrassment fading, to be replaced by the surge of power.

This isn’t hard, Issy, stop overthinking this and go with your instincts.

Luckily, she had a lot of instincts where he was concerned.

She trailed her fingers through his abs—loving the tensile strength, the feel of his skin, soft and warm. She circled a small tattoo on his hip flexor, the badge of the world snowboarding logo somehow captivating her, then—biting into her lip—lifted her finger to touch the bulbous head of his erection.

It jerked towards her touch. She sucked in a breath as he groaned, and a bead of moisture appeared at the tip.

She circled the thick girth, captivated by the velvet softness of his skin, and the contrast with the steel beneath. Her breath clogged in her lungs as she rubbed her thumb across the head. His hips rose and she felt the answering pull in her sex.

What was it going to feel like, to have all that hardness, that length and girth, inside her? It had felt so good with just his finger, but suddenly the urge to feel all of him—as he took her for the first time—was fierce and intense.

She bit harder into her lip as her fingers surrounded him, then drew her fist up and down the thick length, aware of his breathing becoming heavier, and harsher, and more urgent.

But then he gripped her wrist. ‘As much as I’m enjoying that, we need to get to the main event before I explode.’

She nodded. And climbed over his lap again, the feeling of power and excitement strengthening her resolve. She sucked in a lungful of his scent—the delicious musk of cedarwood and salt. Going with her instincts, she leaned forward and placed her mouth on his.

He clasped the back of her head and took over, thrusting his tongue deep, even as he lifted her hips and positioned himself at her entrance. She flinched, the pressure at her core painful, but the slickness of her recent orgasm allowed him to slide deep in one thrust.

She groaned, impaled to the hilt.

He swore softly, breaking the kiss. ‘You’re so tight,’ he said, the strain in his voice making her aware of how close to the edge he was too. ‘Are you okay? I’m not hurting you?’

She pressed her face into his neck, her breaths coming out in ragged pants as she struggled to adjust to the pressure, to ease the pain, aware of him so thick inside her, the full, stretched feeling too much.

His fingers threaded into her hair, to pull her head back and force her to meet his gaze.

He let out a stream of curses and dropped his head back against the sofa.

She tried to lift off him he clasped her hips to keep her in place.

‘Don’t... Don’t move.’

He looked dazed, drained, and even though the vicious need still pulsed inside her—desperate to be filled—the wave of accomplishment at seeing what she did to him was its own reward.

She eased off him again, then sank back to the hilt. He was still huge, still overwhelming inside her, but the ripples began to build and merge as her clumsy movements became more focussed, more sure.

He moved with her, surging up as she sank down. And gradually, the exquisite pain turned to brutal pleasure.

He reached down to where they joined, finding the heart of her. And the hard pulse of pleasure rose again, harder, faster, more furious, more desperate.

He worked the spot, even as he grew larger inside her—his grunts matching her sobs. The heady wave of sensation rose to slam into her at last. She tumbled over into the abyss, her cries of completion followed by his shout of climax.

She collapsed into his arms, spent now, and worn out.

He shifted against her as she listened to the strong steady beat against her ear—the afterglow like a drug.

Was it supposed to feel this intense? As if she had been changed for ever? How did anyone survive something this intimate without losing their sense of self?