Chapter Twelve #2
He takes it slow, sliding in an inch, then easing back, gradually coating himself with my moisture before moving forward again, until he’s fully sheathed.
I tighten my internal muscles and we both groan at the sensation of him being all the way up, right to the top, stretching and filling me to the brim.
“You feel amazing,” he says, his voice little more than a growl, and starts to move.
“Aaahhh…” I wrap my legs around his waist, tilting my pelvis up, then slide back onto my elbows. He leans forward to kiss me, and I moan at the change of angle—he’s driving down into me, and fuck that feels amazing.
Clearly, he’s trying to take it slow, but I don’t want him to be calm and in control. I want to drive him crazy with desire. I want him to lose it with me.
I lower myself onto my back and lift my arms above my head, and he groans, covering my breasts with his hands before dropping his head to suck my nipples. I feel so abandoned like this; I stretch out, moaning his name.
It turns out to be a mistake, because my palette is still sitting at the edge of the table, and I plunge my hand straight into it. Lifting my hand, I discover my fingers and palm covered with a variety of acrylic paint.
I sigh and rub my fingers together, oddly turned on by the slippery feel and the bright colors. He lifts his head and sees it, but before he can react, I brush my fingers over his face, smearing the colors across his skin.
“Argh,” he says, and to my surprise he laughs.
Feeling a surge of mischief, I scoop the paint into a mound on my finger, then write something in the middle of his chest. He glances at it upside down, then looks at me. It’s just one word. Mine.
He gives long, slow thrusts, almost withdrawing before sliding back inside, but as he looks down at the word on his chest, he begins to move faster.
I think maybe he secretly likes it. The thought that someone wants him enough to claim him.
Who doesn’t want to be wanted, especially if you were married to a cold fish for over twenty years?
The wine has mixed with the adrenaline that’s pumping through me, and I feel almost dizzy with lust. “I’ve branded you,” I announce. “Made you mine. Do you understand?”
He doesn’t say anything, but he frowns.
“Say it,” I demand. “You’re mine.”
He slows, then stops moving. His eyes bore into mine. I wait for him to tell me not to say things like that.
But to my shock, he says, huskily, “I’m yours.”
He doesn’t mean it. We’re only playing. But it lights me up like a Christmas tree. “Say it again,” I tell him, laying a hand over the word on his chest.
He begins moving again. “I’m yours, Marama.
All yours.” He slides a hand into my hair, which has come loose from the elastic, and pulls it back so he can kiss my throat.
“I don’t give a fuck what anyone else says,” he growls into my ear, “I’m making you mine, and I don’t want any other man touching you. ”
Ohhh… yes he knows how to play the game. He’s starting to lose it. This is what I wanted, what I needed. He leans a hand either side of me and thrusts hard enough to make the table rattle.
“Yeah, fuck me like that,” I instruct him with delight.
Our gazes lock, and his blue eyes blaze. “You like this?” he whispers. “You like me fucking you hard?”
“Mmm… I love it…”
“What do you want, baby?”
“I want you to fuck me into next week.”
“Like this?” He thrusts harder.
“Aaahhh… yeah…” I groan. “That feels amazing. Mmm…” The sound of his hips meeting the back of my thighs fills the air, and it’s so erotic that it makes me moan. I haven’t had sex like this for an eternity. “Ohhh… don’t stop…”
“I won’t. You’re so fucking beautiful.” He strokes over my breasts, and I can feel my orgasm hovering in the wings. “Spencer…” I whisper.
He kisses me fiercely. I can feel the tension starting to build inside as, with each thrust of his hips, he grinds against me.
I groan. “I’m going to come…”
“Ah, yeah…” He kisses back to my mouth, still thrusting. “Baby…”
I let my knees fall wide apart and abandon myself to him and to the climax that wants to claim me.
It begins deep inside, a gradual tightening, delicious and warm, and then spreads out through me, ooh…
a strong one… so erotic and satisfying… a series of intense clenches that make me cry out loud because they feel so amazing.
He rides me through it, watching my face and murmuring, “Ahhh… you’re so beautiful…” while I gasp.
And then, as my body finally releases me and brings me back to consciousness, I push up onto my elbows and look up at him through hazy eyes.
He continues to move, smiling a little, looking at my mouth before he bends and kisses me.
His hips move faster, harder, and I tighten my legs around him, encouraging him.
It doesn’t take long before he stiffens, his fingers curling into fists on the table, his muscles hardening, and he closes his eyes with a fierce frown as he comes inside me, which is ohhh so beautiful that it makes me want to cry.
“Yeah…” I whisper, opening my mouth as he kisses me, and our tongue tangle as his hips jerk with each pulse, until eventually his body releases him, and he lets out a long, heartfelt groan.
I let my head drop back, and he rests his forehead on my shoulder, his lips grazing my throat. “Mmmm,” I murmur. “That was soooo good.”
He lifts his head, and we look at each other for a long moment.
Gradually, the sexual haze that had claimed me subsides, and the full realization of what we’ve done settles over me.
He lost control. I drove him to the edge and pushed him over. And he might not be very happy about that. He was so adamant that he wouldn’t do it. What if he hates me now it’s done?
“Don’t regret it,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes. He’s still inside me. Oh God, please don’t let him get angry before it’s even over.
He blinks a few times. Then, to my relief, his lips curve up. “I don’t,” he says gently.
He looks down, holds the condom, and withdraws. Grabs a tissue from the box on the floor and disposes of it. Then comes back to me and holds out a hand. Sniffing, I slide mine into it, and he pulls me to my feet.
Then he wraps his arms around me and holds me tightly.
I bury my face in his neck, my arms curled up close to me, comforted by his embrace. On his chest, I open my hand, covering the word there. Mine.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “You made me feel… wanted. That’s a first.” He moves back, looks down at us, and chuckles. “What a mess.” We’re both covered in paint.
“We should wash this off,” I advise. “It’s not harmful, but it might irritate the skin if it’s there too long.”
“Best we shower together,” he says. “To save water.”
That makes me laugh. “Yeah. Come on.”
We pick up our clothes, and I take him through to my bedroom, and then into my bathroom. I turn the shower on and take a moment to clip up my hair, and then when the water’s hot, we step into the cubicle and close the door.
Ooh, he’s bigger than he seems at first glance; he seems to fill the cubicle both physically and with his sheer presence. Spencer Cavendish, naked in my shower. Wow.
I pick up the shower gel and pour a decent amount into my hand, then begin to wash him. He stands there patiently, taking the brunt of the water, his hands on my hips, watching me as I clean him.
I scrub off the paint on his shoulders and neck, then move to his chest. My hand hovers over the word that is still visible on his skin. Glancing up at him, I’m surprised to see him smiling, and affection in his eyes.
He told me, You made me feel… wanted. That’s a first.
I want to tell him he’s mine. But instinct tells me he’s not ready for that. He played along, but even though he says he doesn’t regret it, I think he’s assuming this is a one-off.
We’ll have to see what we can do about that.
I scrub the word off his chest. But I’ve branded him, and it’s going to remain there, long after the paint has gone.