11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Maddie
The kiss is relentless.
That's the thing about Demetrius Thornwood. He doesn't do anything halfway. The man runs on the principle that things either get done completely or they don't get done at all, and apparently this includes kissing.
My hands find his chest. The fabric of his t-shirt is soft under my palms and beneath it his muscles are hard and absolutely unfair. I'm falling into this without a single functioning brain cell to my name.
And you know what? My brain cells are currently out of office. Gone fishing. Left the building. Do not call.
My fingers close in the fabric at his stomach and I push the hem up. He breaks the kiss long enough for me to strip the t-shirt over his head, and then I stand there with the t-shirt in my fist and take stock of what I've just uncovered.
He's gorgeous. Short jet-black fur covers his chest everywhere except around his nipples, which are a soft, warm pink against all that dark, and his stomach is a geography of muscle.
He watches me stare.
"You done looking?" he says.
"Almost." I drop his t-shirt. "Give me another second."
The corner of his mouth ticks up.
My fingers move down to his belt and his expression shifts. Not much. Just enough. He goes completely still, the way big predators freeze when prey enters their field of vision. Only I'm well past entering his orbit. I'm knee deep in trouble and I have no intention of stopping.
His hands close over mine.
"I've been dreaming about this for a decade," he says, "and I have no intention of rushing it. I'm going to savor every second of this, starting with feasting on your sweet pussy."
My brain malfunctions.
He says it quietly, and his eyes are dark and steady on mine. My knees go weak and I have no idea how I'm still standing. A rush of heat spreads between my thighs, immediately soaking my panties.
"That is," I say, and my voice comes out low and hoarse, "a very effective line."
"It's not a line."
No. I know it's not. Still effective though.
He reaches for the hem of my nightgown and I lift my arms, letting him pull it over my head and off, and then I'm standing in just my white cotton underwear as his gaze moves over me. My nipples are rock hard from both my arousal and the cool air and his gaze locks on my breasts.
"You're perfect," he murmurs, eyes moving over every inch of me with a reverence that makes my skin prickle. "Absolutely perfect."
His large hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and the contact sends a bolt of heat straight down my center.
I make a choked sound and he does it again, more deliberate this time, watching my face with dark, intent eyes, and then he ducks his head and closes his mouth over one nipple.
His tongue circles it, slow and warm, and my fingers find his hair and grip.
He works it until my knees tremble, then crosses to the other side and does the same, unhurried and thorough.
By the time he lifts his head, I'm already half-undone.
Any self-consciousness I had left the building along with my brain cells.
His mouth finds my sternum, then my stomach, pressing slow open kisses down as his hands travel with him, skating over my ribs, over the curve of my hips. He traces a path down to the waistband of my underwear and pauses there, his lips brushing the skin just above the cotton.
My pulse pounds so hard I can feel it in my teeth. He presses one deliberate kiss directly over the fabric where my clit throbs with need and I gasp. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at me, his eyes dark and steady on mine as he draws my panties slowly down my legs.
He kneels in front of me, his gaze set on me like I'm something worth studying. Not quickly, not impulsively, but deliberately like he has all the time in the world. I step out of my underwear and the tile is cool under my bare feet.
Between us the air shifts into something different. His nostrils flare. He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep, long inhale, his snout right next to my soft cover of curls, then lets out a slow exhale. He groans like a man smelling something freshly baked and devastatingly good.
"You smell sweet," he says. "The sweetest thing I've ever smelled."
That is the most devastating sentence ever constructed in the English language.
"I'm going to feast on you now. I'm going to feast on you until you come all over my tongue with your sweet honey."
His hot breath ghosts over my inner thigh and my whole body tightens in anticipation. My arousal hangs thick and undeniable between us. His hands part my thighs and his mouth finds the center of me, and I stop being able to think in any language at all.
His tongue parts me and moves, slow and deliberate, a long stroke from my center up and over my clit, and the sound that comes out of me is equal parts desperate and infinitely satisfied.
He does it again and I feel the answering growl against me, low and feral, and my hands drop to his head and I'm gripping his horns like my life depends on it.
And for all I know, my life does depend on it, because my legs have decided that supporting me is not their problem anymore.
My hips roll against his mouth and he holds my thighs open and keeps going, circling and flicking, patient and relentless, and I am completely and entirely lost to the sensation.
"More, Dem, I need more." I do not manage to sound dignified about it. I also don't care. All I care about is his tongue on my clit and the sensation building like water behind a dam about to break.
"That's exactly what I want to give you," he says against me. "More. Everything."
Then he slips one long finger inside me, curling forward as his mouth goes back to work, and I tip my head back, close my eyes, and surrender to the hurricane of sensation.
The orgasm comes from everywhere at once.
I grab his horns tighter and ride it out, his mouth working me through all of it, not stopping until I'm trembling against him and the only sounds in the kitchen are the very unladylike noises my mouth keeps making.
He rises from his knees, in no rush at all, and his eyes find mine. He looks like a man who has just gotten exactly what he wanted, so unguarded it almost brings my breathing back. Almost.
"Hi," I manage, with a smile that probably looks crazy and weak.
"Hi," he says.
Then he bends and picks me up like I weigh nothing, leaving my nightgown on the kitchen floor. I yelp in surprise and wrap my arms around his neck, but he barely slows down as he walks out.
We move through the dark hallways, up the staircase, and then we're in his room. I've been in his room before and it still catches me off guard that it has barely changed in all those years. It's large and masculine and so undeniably him it's almost disorienting.
Dark wood furniture, clean lines, nothing unnecessary.
A monstrously big bed takes up most of the far wall, dressed in a marine blue comforter and a careful arrangement of pillows.
A lamp sits on the nightstand, throwing warm amber light over everything, and through the far window the ocean is a dark smudge of silver under the moon.
He lowers me onto the bed.
The comforter is cool and smooth under my back and I take half a second to register how good it feels before I sit up on my elbows, reach for his belt buckle, and work it open while he stands there and watches me with his hands still at his sides, that same complete, unnerving stillness.
His jeans come open and I push them down and the breath goes out of me in a slow, involuntary rush.
He is large. Objectively, spectacularly large.
The kind of large that makes a woman perform a very rapid internal calculation regarding physics.
He was my first and I remember, even at eighteen, having a moment of significant personal recalibration.
What stands in front of me now makes that memory look like a warm-up exercise.
A drop of moisture sits at the broad tip and my mouth waters as I stare at it. Correct response. Here we are.
"Are you sure?" he says.
I look up at him. His face is a landscape of pure male hunger but he's still restrained enough to ask. There is nothing he could do that would be sexier.
"Yes." No hesitation. Zero. "Now stop asking."
He almost smiles. He climbs over me, the warm weight of him bracketing me on either side, and the mattress gives under us as his mouth finds my throat.
He kisses me there, all along the underside of my jaw, then the ridge of my collarbone, and trails down between my breasts and captures one nipple between his lips.
A needy, guttural sound escapes me and I dig my fingers into his mane, savoring the silky, smooth texture of it. He works my nipple until I squirm, then crosses to the other side and does it again until I'm squirming more.
"Demetrius." My voice sounds like I've been running.
"Mm."
"Is your goal here to torture me?"
He looks up at me and his expression is the most insufferably pleased look I have ever seen on a man's face.
"How impatient you are," he says.
"That's not an answer."
He kisses my stomach and I try to remember that I am a grown adult woman with dignity and self-control, and then he climbs back up my body, trailing kisses on my heated skin, until he settles between my thighs.
The evidence of how much he wants this nudges against me, and dignity exits the premises.
He takes his shaft in his hand and draws the tip of his cock through my wet folds, slow and maddening, up and down. I hear myself make a sound that might be his name or might be a word that doesn't exist in any language but works fine here.
His eyes come up to mine.
He holds my gaze as he notches himself at my entrance and then pushes in, slow and steady, a long, smooth stretch of him filling me, and my back arches off the bed and my mouth falls open on nothing.
He doesn't stop until he's fully seated, every inch of him.
I feel split open in the best way, stretched full, my walls fluttering around him as they figure out the situation.
He pauses.
Still watching me. Always watching me. Like I'm the only thing in the room, in the house, in the world that he gives a damn about right now.
He starts to move.
The first thrust is slow. The second, the same. My hips roll to meet the third and his breath changes, a low sound from somewhere in his chest, and then we find a rhythm and I stop keeping track of things like time and reason.
My eyes close. The pleasure builds in waves and I let them take me, deeper and more insistent with every pass, and then his fingers find my jaw, warm and firm, tilting my face.
"Look at me."
My eyes open.
He's watching me like he's cataloguing every detail for later. My face, my mouth, the exact sound I just made. Like he plans to memorize every second of this moment.
"I've waited a very long time," he says, his hips driving forward and I gasp, "to see your face when you come."
I try to hold his gaze. I really do. I try through three more thrusts and then my concentration goes the way of everything else I thought I had under control tonight.
"I'm going to," I say, or something like it. "Demetrius, I'm going to come."
"Yes, Maddie, come for me."
The orgasm hits me like a wave, from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head, and my eyes squeeze shut despite my best efforts. His name comes out of me in a long moan.
He follows me over. His rhythm breaks into something deeper and less controlled, and he bottoms out and holds there, his whole body shuddering, a rough sound tearing out of him from somewhere deep in his chest, and I feel the warmth of his release filling me as he spills deep inside.
For a moment neither of us moves.
My entire body is a happy, wrung-out mess and I'm not even sure where Demetrius ends and I begin.
He shifts his weight and lowers himself beside me, careful not to crush me, which, given the size difference between us, is a thoughtful choice. I feel every breath he takes against my side.
His hand finds my face. He pushes the hair back from my cheek with a gentleness that cracks something open behind my ribcage, his thumb tracing along my jaw.
He looks at me in the low light. Tender. Steady.
"You're right where you belonged all along," he says. "In my arms."
He tucks me against him and his arm comes around me, warm and sure. Safe, surrounded by his warmth. I close my eyes and nestle against his chest, my eyelids going heavy as I listen to his heartbeat.
Maybe he's right. Maybe this is where I belong.
I fall asleep thinking it.