Sharon Ashwood - Unchained

Her hand cupped the front of his jeans just for a moment, a quick, possessive gesture. Reynard caught his breath. Blood and thunder, if I don’t hurry this along, I won’t last beyond the opening pleasantries.

Roaming up her ribs, his hands could find only flesh beneath the top she wore. He felt a brief pang of disappointment—he had fancied an encounter with one of those frilly bras he’d seen in modern magazines—but warm female breast quickly occupied his attention. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, bringing a groan from her throat. Her hands raked through his hair, then fell to his shoulders, then slowly ran down his arms, caressing him until she cupped his own hands where he touched her.

She turned, pulling him down and falling onto the couch in one graceful motion. The fabric that covered it was a deep green, her bare arms ivory against it. Reynard knelt, straddling her legs, knocking throw cushions to the floor as he settled. Ashe was on her back, underneath him, as he’d fantasized so many times.

Only this time, there was no Castle to throttle that desire. The pounding in his loins was as raw and real as it had been in his youth. The scent of her skin filled his nose, his lungs, seeping into his blood like a drug. A flush of desire was creeping over her, turning the ivory to rose. He could feel the warmth of it, and he heated in turn.

Her eyes widened with appreciation of the tattoos that crawled over his chest.

“These are so funky,” she said, tracing them lightly with her nails. The butterfly touch made him shiver, hardening his own nipples into pale peaks. Her hand moved to a scar that curled from his shoulder down to his chest. “What’s this?”

The impulse to talk was fading fast. “The sword thrust that sent me home to England.”

“And here.” She ran her fingers over his abdomen. “There should be a scar here, from last fall, but there’s no mark. That ax wound was deep.”

Reynard began to play with the waistband of her pants, hoping to lure her back to the task at hand. “I have scars only from before I became a guardsman. The rest heal completely, given time.”

“That’s right. You’ve got superpowers of recovery. That should come in handy tonight.”

Tonight. It might be all they had, but he would make her remember it. Reynard pulled up the hem of her shirt and pressed his lips to the soft flesh just above her navel, tasting it, nuzzling his way upward between the arcs of her rib cage.

Seeming suddenly impatient, she peeled the peach-colored tank top over her head, revealing small, firm breasts. Her nipples were the delicate pink of seashells. He took one greedily, using his tongue to bring it to a peak. She arched into him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, kissing the hollow of her collarbone, the soft spot just below her ear. He used his hands and his mouth to make her breath come quickly, short gasps of need that made the back of his own neck prickle.

“It’s all good,” she whispered.

“But all women have a key,” he murmured into her ear. “A secret wish that unlocks them every time.”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s not pretty.”

Ashe writhed as he pulled down her stretchy slacks, tossing them to the floor. He nearly fell to the floor right along with them.

“Bloody hell.”

She was wearing nothing underneath, not even the usual triangle of hair. His imagination hadn’t predicted that one, but it was sure to be included in any future scripts.

“That would be your key, would it?” she said slyly. “Or perhaps calling it the lock would be more anatomically correct.”

Reynard cleared his throat, but there would be no more talking as her fingers found his zipper and slid it carefully open, giving him blessed relief. Her breasts rose in a quick inhale as he shed the rest of his clothes.

“Sweet Hecate, no wonder they locked you up.”

“You have no idea,” he said, keeping the irony out of his tone.

She shifted, welcoming him into her arms. The sensation of touching skin to skin, the complete freedom of nakedness, filled every sense. She was smooth and lean, long legs wrapping around his waist. It had been so long since he had felt anything like this, the physical world began to blur. Nothing was left but the painful, throbbing need to possess.

“I can’t wait,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Then don’t.”

“It will be rough.”

“Perfect.” Her gaze was unfocused. “Completely perfect. Don’t hold back.”

She shifted again, her hand guiding him as he pushed inside. The hot tightness of her made him cry out. A growl came from her throat. Sharp nails dug into his shoulders, the pain only increasing his desire. He moved inside her carefully, biting his lip, doing everything he could to slow down and give her some chance at pleasure. Her muscles clenched around him, the delicious agony of it turning his vision to starbursts.

Then rhythm took over, each thrust making her gasp and the couch moan. He heard the sounds, but they had no meaning. All he could feel was the gathering storm, and the hot wetness surrounding him. Quickening pulses spasmed deep inside her as his rhythm broke and he began to pound, taking her too hard and too soon.

But he could tell she needed the raw frenzy of their joining as much as he did.

“Oh, Goddess!” Ashe cried.

He felt the release like a bolt of lightning, blanking every nerve in exquisite torment. It felt like it went on and on, making up for an eternity of denial.

Ending too soon.

He gripped the couch, arm muscles quivering. There was no room to collapse, not without smothering Ashe or tumbling to the floor. They were both breathing hard, sticky with sweat. She looked startled, like he’d done something remarkable. Maybe not all my skills are lost?

“Do you sleep on this couch?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with panting.

Her hair had come loose, scattering around her in a ragged, tawny sun. She shook her head mutely.

Carefully, he found his feet, making sure his legs could still support him. “Show me your bed and I’ll do that properly.”

Ashe frowned. “But you did it just right.”

“Of course I did. And now I know what you like. A tiger to your tigress.”

“Hot damn,” she muttered.

Taking her had only kindled his need. Her flushed cheeks and swollen lips turned the flame into a blaze. He pulled her up and into a deep, hungry kiss.

This time, she melted in his arms like sorbet left in the sun. Ah, yes. He cupped the cheeks of her firm bottom, the feel of the warm flesh starting the heaviness in his belly all over again. He felt himself hardening already.

Immortality had its advantages.

She broke away, catching his hand. “This way.”

He registered nothing of how they got there. It was growing dark, lights glowing here and there on clocks and appliances. There were noises in other parts of the house—voices, doors closing—but it only served to enhance a sense of stolen privacy.

Halfway down the hall, Ashe stopped, her grip on his biceps rough. He let her shove him into the cold, rough plaster of the wall.

“How hard are you willing to play?” she demanded.

“How hard do you need it?”

She took his mouth, then the flesh of his shoulder in her teeth, biting down. Pain and pleasure shot through him like shards of light. Unbearable, and yet the throbbing in his groin flared into an ache. He grabbed her around the ribs, picking her up. Her tongue traced the side of his neck, her hair falling around them in a silky curtain.

“Take me,” she whispered. “Let me fight you.”

“I’ll win.”

“Make me forget everything but you.”

“With pleasure.”