Chapter Nine #3
“I hope like hell you brought a condom,” he said, his voice ragged, rough.
“I think I did,” she said, her tone wavering. “Yes, I did. It’s in my purse. Hurry.”
“You want me to dig through your purse.”
“I can’t breathe. I can’t move. If I do anything, I’m going to fall down. So I suggest you get the condom so that I don’t permanently wound myself attempting to procure it.”
“Your tongue seems fine,” he said, moving away from her and going to grab the purse that she had discarded along with the rest of her clothes.
“So does yours,” she muttered.
And he knew that what she was referring to had nothing to do with talking.
He found the condom easily enough, since it was obviously the last thing she had thrown into her bag. Then he stood, stripping his shirt off and his pants, adding to the pile of clothing that Maddy had already left on the studio floor.
Then he tore open the packet and took care of the protection. He looked around the room, searching for some surface that he could use. That they could use.
There was no way to lay her down, which he kind of regretted. Mostly because he always felt like she deserved a little bit more than the rough stuff that he doled out to her. Except she seemed to like it. So if it was what she wanted, she was about to get the full experience tonight.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her up against him, pressing their bodies together, her bare breasts pressing hard against his chest. He was so turned on, his arousal felt like a crowbar between them.
She didn’t seem to mind.
He took hold of her chin, tilting her face up so she had to look at him. And then he leaned in, kissing her lightly, gently. It would be the last gentle thing he did all night.
He slid his hands along her body, moving them to grip her hips. Then he turned her so that she was facing away from him. She gasped but followed the momentum as he propelled her forward, toward one of the iron figures—a horse—and placed his hand between her shoulder blades.
“Hold on to the horse, cowgirl,” he said, his voice so rough it sounded like a stranger’s.
“What?”
He pushed more firmly against her back, bending her forward slightly, and she lifted her hands, placing them over the back of the statue. “Just like that,” he said.
Her back arched slightly, and he drew his fingertips down the line of her spine, all the way down to her butt. He squeezed her there, then slipped his hand to her hip.
“Spread your legs,” he instructed.
She did, widening her stance, allowing him a good view and all access. He moved his hand back there, just for a second, testing her readiness. Then he positioned his arousal at the entrance to her body. He pushed into her, hard and deep, and she let out a low, slow sound of approval.
He braced himself, putting one hand on her shoulder, his thumb pressed firmly against the back of her neck, the other holding her hip as he began to move inside her.
He lost himself. In her, in the moment. In this soft, beautiful woman, all curves and round shapes in the middle of this hard, angular garden of iron.
The horse was hard in front of her; he was hard behind her. Only Maddy was soft.
Her voice was soft—the little gasps of pleasure that escaped her lips like balm for his soul. Her body was soft, her curves giving against him every time he thrust home.
When she began to rock back against him, her desperation clearly increasing along with his, he moved his hand from her hip to between her thighs.
He stroked her in time with his thrusts, bringing her along with him, higher and higher until he thought they would both shatter.
Until he thought they might shatter everything in this room.
All of these unbreakable, unbending things.
She lowered her head, her body going stiff as her release broke over her, her body spasming around his, that evidence of her own loss of control stealing every ounce of his own.
He gave himself up to this. Up to her. And when his climax hit him, it was with the realization that it was somehow hers. That she owned this. Owned this moment. Owned his body.
That realization only made it more intense. Only made it more arousing.
His muscles shook as he poured himself into her. As he gave himself up to it totally, completely, in a way he had given himself up to nothing and no one for more than five years. Maybe ever.
In this moment, surrounded by all of these creations that had come out of him, he was exposed, undone.
As though he had ripped his chest open completely and exposed his every secret to her, as though she could see everything, not just these creations, but the ugly, secret things that he kept contained inside his soul.
It was enough to make his knees buckle, and he had to reach out, pressing his palm against the rough surface of the iron horse to keep himself from falling to the ground and dragging Maddy with him.
The only sound in the room was their broken breathing, fractured and unsteady. He gathered her up against his body, one hand against her stomach, the other still on the back of the horse, keeping them upright.
He angled his head, buried his face in her neck, kissed her.
“Well,” Maddy said, her voice unsteady, “that was amazing.”
He couldn’t respond. Because he couldn’t say anything. His tongue wasn’t working; his brain wasn’t working. His voice had dried up like a desert. Instead, he released his grip on the horse, turned her to face him and claimed her mouth in a deep, hard kiss.