Breaking Danger (28 page)

But Jon had really good spatial awareness and a really good memory. He knew where everything was. He wasn't going to fall down with Sophie in his arms. Not now, not ever.

In seconds they were in the master bedroom that looked east, the sun halfway up the sky filling the room with light. It blossomed under his eyelids because his eyes were still closed, kissing Sophie. All he saw behind his closed eyes was gold.

She slid down his body to her feet. He was holding her still for his kiss with one hand behind her head, the other feverishly pulling down the sweat suit pants, unzipping the hoodie, and then Sophie was naked in his arms. He held her so tightly she gasped and he loosened his hold a little. It was amazingly hard to do.

“You now.” Jon opened his eyes to see Sophie half smiling up at him. She was aroused. Her high cheekbones were flushed, her eyes wide and sparkling, her mouth full and red from his kisses, dark hair tousled from his hands.

She'd said something but he hadn't understood. He was beyond understanding words—all he understood now was body language and his body was telling him,
Get into Sophie as fast as you can.
And her body must have been telling her more or less the same thing. Her nipples were hard, deep pink, the left breast trembling with her heartbeat. She was flushed down to her breasts as if she'd already had an orgasm.

Maybe she had? Maybe she'd climaxed while they were dancing. Man, what a turn-on that idea was. There was one way to find out. His hand moved from her back down the delicate curve, over her luscious ass, all the way down. He waggled his hand and her legs obediently opened and he touched her there, right there, where he wanted to put his cock.

Soon.

He ran his fingers down her slick opening from behind. He all but sighed. Her lips there were puffy and wet, like pouty lips waiting for his kiss.

“Take your clothes off, Jon.”

Sophie was talking. He heard the noise and could even feel the puff of her breath against his neck, but the words made no sense. No words made sense just now. The only thing that made any sense at all was the feel of Sophie against him, his fingers sliding in and out of her soft wetness. He slid a finger in and she clenched around him, like the beginning of an orgasm. Oh yeah . . .

And then she was moving away from him, sliding out of his arms, his hand sliding out of her. He felt cold and bereft. Why was she moving?

“Jon!” She slapped his chest.

Jon rubbed it. Not because she'd hurt him—she couldn't hurt him if she tried unless she had a firearm—but because something inside his chest felt inflamed, almost painful.

She'd called his name. He made a sound. If you were charitable it could be considered a
huh?
But really, it was a grunt.

Sophie rolled her eyes, then tugged on his shoulder, pulling him down. He went willingly. He was more than willing to do whatever Sophie wanted. She wanted him to bend over? Hell yeah! He bent over, waiting for whatever she wanted.

What she wanted was to pull off his long-sleeved tee. And when he straightened, pull down his pants. His dick sproinged out. He toed off his boots, stepped away from his pants, and they both looked down at his dick, flushed with eagerness, shiny with pre-come at the tip, so hard it was practically flat against his stomach.

She looked up at him. “That's quite something.”

He had no air in his lungs to answer her and even if he did have some air, he had no words. He just looked at her dumbly, like an animal hoping for a treat.

Sophie smiled at him. Her face was beautiful in repose, but when she smiled, it was like the sun coming out, brighter than what was shining down through the windows.

Her fingers curled up in a
come to me
gesture.

Oh yeah.

For a second, it had been as if he were under a spell. Her looking at him, staring at his dick, had somehow paralyzed him. He was waiting for whatever she wanted, only she hadn't let him know what it was. Now, with that curl of her long, slender fingers, she made it explicit. She wanted him.

Now
he knew what to do.

He was nearly shaking with excitement, as if he'd never had sex before in his life. And really he hadn't. Not like this, anyway.

If he'd had some blood in his head, he'd have been ashamed of himself. He was super cool in bed. He had a strategic mind that extended itself to sex. He could catch the smallest clue, like broken breathing, a slight flush. Give him ten minutes, and he'd become the world's greatest expert on what kind of sex that woman wanted and he'd oblige. Fast, slow, hard, soft. He could do it all.

His entire repertory had simply fled from him now. There was only one kind of sex he was capable of with Sophie and that was the desperate kind. But she deserved better than that.

So he took a deep breath, and with superhuman discipline he calmed himself down a little. Tensed his muscles to make them go slow. There wasn't anything in the world he could do about his dick, though. Nothing could make it go down just a little so it looked more like a human organ and less like a caveman's club. It felt like it would never go down again in his lifetime. Like an erection was a permanent state.

“Make me go slow,” he pleaded. He reached his hand out, slowly, pushing it through the air as if through a hard barrier. He touched her shoulder, palm completely open. He had strong hands and he was unsure he'd be able to regulate his strength if he cupped her shoulder. “I don't have too much control now, so make sure I don't overdo it.” He closed his eyes, swallowed. “Don't . . . hurt you.” That last came out of a scratchy throat. He felt scratchy, all over, buzzed with anxiety. Not a good feeling. Man, the idea of hurting Sophie . . .

He opened his eyes again. He'd been half expecting a look of triumph or at least pleasure, because he'd just put all the power in Sophie's hands. He'd told her how excited he was, that he didn't have much control. In any other woman he'd expect coy smugness. But Sophie's look was sober, tender. It was as if she could see that he was suffering and couldn't bear it. She touched his cheek and again there was that weird warmth, that feeling of well-being.

“I won't let you hurt me, Jon. You think you might hurt me, but you couldn't. Trust me on this.” Keeping her hand on his cheek, she lifted herself on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

A kiss on the cheek. Considering the image that had been buzzing around in his head—holding her still with his hands while he hammered into her—a kiss on the cheek was nothing. Not even scratching the itch.

But—it worked, somehow. The buzzing in his head and the almost-violent sexual images floating around inside it slowed, disappeared. What was left was a soft humming and images of gentle kisses and slow, tender movements.

Yeah, that was it.

Before that nasty buzzing could get going again, Jon moved forward and she shuffled backward until her knees touched the edge of the bed. “Lie down, honey.”

She obeyed. Robb and his Anna hadn't made the bed before fleeing, so Sophie settled down on rumpled sheets. They were flowery and made a nest around her so she looked like a pearl on a bed of roses. Her skin glowed, pale and perfect, her dark hair tousled around her head. Long, slender, graceful limbs. Soft eyes looking at him, waiting for him.

His limbs moved jerkily as he lay down next to her. He wanted inside her like he wanted his next breath, but she was just too beautiful. He wanted to feast on her for just a little while more.

Stretched out at her side, Jon touched an eyebrow with the tip of his forefinger. Just the lightest touch. Everything about her sent him into sensory overload. Every inch of her body called out to be looked at, touched, kissed. He'd start slow, just like he promised.

He followed the dark graceful eyebrows. His finger traced the perfect oval of her face, lingering on the dimple in her slightly pointed chin. Next, her lips, velvety soft. They opened at his touch and she breathed in deeply. She followed his eyes as he looked at her, finger tracing her jawline, then down, across the delicate collarbones. She was flushed, light rose over pearl.

Jon's eyes dropped as did his finger, down over the center line of her body, between her breasts. Up again, to lightly circle her nipples, now a deep rose color. When he stroked her breast, his thumb ran over the velvety skin of her nipple and she shivered.

“You like that?” Jon whispered, unable to take his eyes from her breasts.

“I like it all, Jon.” Her voice was low, too, though there was probably no one within a radius of fifty miles. No one human, anyway.

He bent quickly, licked her nipple, keeping his hand on her belly. When he licked it again, her belly muscles contracted. He let out his breath in a long, slow release.

He liked that he was engaging in a little foreplay, but this was more about him, really. Him trying to gain some control. These slow movements, step by step, were helping him.

The tip of his forefinger ran along her side, where she narrowed to a ridiculously small waist then flared out again. She was as perfect a woman as he'd ever seen in his life. Then over her belly to the belly button, the cutest little innie ever. It made him smile just looking at it.

His big, tanned, scarred hand looked like a blunt instrument on her velvety skin. It was the most erotic contrast possible.

His eyes rose to hers now because he was going exploring in a place where he couldn't see so he wanted to watch her face. The finger went down, down. She didn't need for him to tell her to open her legs. They opened automatically, her heels making a swishing sound on the sheets. Jon kept watching her eyes, but he had excellent peripheral vision and she made this luscious picture on the rose-patterned sheets, skin flushed all over, cherry red nipples, the lips of her sex shiny and open.

For him.

He touched her there, as delicately as he could. Such tender, tender flesh and his hands were so callused. But there was no abrasion because she was so slick, so ready for him. His forefinger slid into her and she just closed around his finger like a little mouth. He pulled out a little, pressed in, and she gave a little sigh.

Again, and again. Then her sex clamped around his finger in one convulsive pull that showed again in her belly muscles.

If he were a gentleman, he'd let her climax around his fingers, then he'd go down on her and make her come again and then and only then he would mount her.

But he wasn't a gentleman. Not in any way. He slid his hand out from her and pulled her thighs even further apart, moved over her and slid into her, all in one smooth hard motion.

They both stilled. He was fully on top of her, trying to keep some of the weight of his torso on his forearms. He tilted his head forward until his forehead met hers.

“That feels so good.” Her voice was low, warm and rich.

He nodded, his head against hers.

“It would feel even better if you moved, though.” Her lips curved in one of those mysterious Mona Lisa smiles only beautiful women knew how to produce.

He exhaled slowly. Pulled out. Pushed back in. It felt like heaven. He was finding it hard to pull out because it felt so good just being buried deep inside Sophie, where it was warm and tight and welcoming. But he tried it again. It was awful pulling back, fantastic sliding back in.

Again.

His movements weren't smooth and steady as they usually were. They were jerky, rough. He was barely in control of himself, moving on instinct alone.

Sophie lay her hand on his butt and directed his movements, guiding him until he was able to control himself enough to smooth out his thrusts. Oh yeah. It was better this way, much, much better. He'd lost himself for a moment there, but he came back into himself. Just enough.

He took over, thrusting slowly, steadily, head bowed over hers. A drop of sweat fell from him onto her temple. He wanted to lift his hand and wipe it away but any movements at all besides what he was doing seemed impossible. She didn't even seem to notice, thank God.

Sophie arched suddenly, lifted her legs around his hips, drew in a shocked breath. Her sex contracted once, twice, and then suddenly she gave a sharp cry and started rocking against him, soft tissues pulling at his cock tightly, milking him . . .

Control shattered. Jon's hips hammered into her, hard, fast, rough. If she'd given any sign of distress it might have penetrated the heat in his head. Maybe. He hoped. As it was, Sophie was crying out but not with pain. She was clinging to him tightly with her arms and legs. He lowered his entire weight onto her so he could hold her hips while fucking her just as hard as he could. The bed rocked, swayed, the tall wood and leather headboard beat a hard tattoo against the wall.

It was fast, violent, hot. Hot-hot-hot. Their bodies were plastered together with sweat. It came pouring out of him and his lungs were on fire.

Sophie's head was buried in his neck and she licked him, then bit him. That kicked him up another gear. He was pistoning wildly inside her, panting, sweating . . . it was too much. Just as Sophie gave another wild cry, he plunged deeply inside her and held himself there as every single drop of moisture in his body poured into her.

He was digging his toes in the mattress to stay as deeply inside her as he could while he exploded in waves, shuddering and shaking.

He'd never had an experience as intense as that. It was entirely possible that he blacked out for a second or two. When it was all over, he was sprawled on her with his entire weight, plastered to her with his sweat, their groins wet with his come.

He was ashamed of himself. Sort of. The thing was it had all felt so goddamned
good
. He should assess the damage, right away. Find out how she was, see if he'd hurt her or even disgusted her because for a while there he'd definitely behaved like an animal in rut.

But every muscle in his body was lax, not responding to orders from central command. All he could do was lie on her and pant, trying to get oxygen back into his lungs, blood back to his head.