Jessica Andersen - Spellfire

Groaning, he took her mouth and stopped thinking, worrying, whatever-ing, and let himself just feel as he feasted on her lips, her throat, her breasts. Before, he’d often needed to rein in the magic when he made love to her, as sex tried to bring out the mage in him. Now, though, there was no need for that control, because their powers met and balanced off, ramping up the sizzle yet somehow still leaving it all about him and her, and the slide of flesh against flesh.

He suckled on a pink, peaked nipple and heard her moan, went to work on her hip-hugging jeans and felt her shudder when his fingers found the zipper and tugged it down. She was wearing a slick, soft excuse for underwear, one of the thongs he fucking loved. The feel of it made him hotter, harder, turned him damn near crazy.

He got her jeans down in no time flat, leaving them snagged on her boots, so she was open to him but bound at her ankles. He halfway expected her to hold him off until she’d gotten free; instead, she moaned as he came back up her body, kissing his way up her inner thighs to that thin triangle of satiny cloth, which was a deep, fiery red that seemed to glow in the candlelight, edged on either side by a neatly trimmed strip of hair.

His lips were flush with the taste of her and his senses filled with the scent of her arousal as he traced the tip of his tongue along the line of cloth.

“Oh!” She gasped and arched into him, then purred when he did it again, licking deeper this time, tasting her and using his hands to spread her wider, give him better access. She caught his head in her hands, urged him up. “Come here. I can—”

He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, tonguing her until she went still and silent, her body vibrating around his. “Let this first one be about you,” he growled against the soft skin of her lightly muscled thigh.

He’d never before thought of himself as a selfish lover, or an unselfish one—she’d been his teacher, after all, or maybe it was more that they’d learned together. But he was realizing now that while he’d figured out how to please her, it had always been while she took him with her mouth or her body, giving him everything he could think of and more. She’d never asked for anything that was hers alone. More, when he’d offered or tried, she’d always turned the tables, rising over him, taking him, making him come and come until he couldn’t fucking think.

Now, though, he wanted to give her that same care and attention. And if she didn’t want to take it, she was going to have to say it loud and clear, because he wasn’t going to let her shift gears on him this time.

She had come to him, after all. Now he was going to make her come, over and over again. He was going to make her his, if only for this one night, in this one way.

Things were going to be different this time, damn it.

“But don’t you want . . .” she began, then trailed off when he nipped her thigh in warning.

“I want this,” he said softly. “I want you. Like this.” Forever. The last was a whisper in his mind, an impossibility that belonged only in his dreams. But maybe this was a kind of a dream, he thought as he traced his tongue along the smooth, soft crease beside the moisture-darkened thong. It was a waking dream. And he never fucking wanted to come out of it.

Myr couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but lie there, open to him and yet trapped there as well, having become a creature of pure sensation rather than logic or thought. He breathed against her and she moaned; he licked his way up her center and she shuddered; he sucked on the tight bud of her clit through the fabric of her thong and she nearly came.

I should . . . don’t you want . . . always before, she had maintained a thread of control so she could make sure she pleased him, kept him. Now, her thoughts scattered as the heat coiled within her, sharp and edgy, and almost there. Yes, she thought, Oh, yes. Maybe she had come to him for release, but she was getting so much more.

Someone moaned—she thought it was her, though she wasn’t aware of having made the sound. She was mindless, incoherent. It had been too long; she had been too alone, and all she could do was let her head fall back on the pillow. It was her pillow, she realized with glittering surprise, though she couldn’t think right then what it meant that he’d kept it, because he growled low in his throat and quickened the tempo. And when she cracked her lids to look down at the sight of him feasting on her, she found him staring up her body, eyes dark and intense.

The moment their gazes locked, the pleasure snapped tight within her, flaring bright and brilliant. She came in a crazy, unexpected rush that left her helpless to do anything but clamp herself around him—her legs around his torso, her inner muscles around his fingers—and cry out. It was a wordless sound, not his name, not the love words they’d once used. But the feelings were there without the words, as if the past three months—six months? more?—hadn’t happened. Or, more, as if they had happened differently. She was in tune with him, fixed on him, totally gone on him, as if they’d been hot and heavy all along. As if they hadn’t drifted, hadn’t blown up. And even back when things had been the best between them, he’d never taken her like this, never made her feel like this.

Her eyelids shuddered closed as he breathed her name and shifted to tongue the sensitive knot of flesh at the apex of her cleft, then intensified the strokes of his fingers to counterpoint the fading surge of her body. She gasped and arched into the strokes as intense pleasure overtook her in a second wave, one that spiraled up and up, amping beneath the relentless drive of his mouth and hands, and the sensation of being totally at his mercy. Totally connected to him. She came a second time, with a pressure and power that was shocking and unexpected.

Magical.

She felt invaded, taken, possessed. Always before, it had been give and take between them, and if she’d given more than she took—or allowed him to give in return—wasn’t that what guys wanted? This, though . . . this was different, unsettling. And so brutally erotic that she was left torn between holding him close and pushing him away as he kissed down her legs and stripped off her boots, jeans and panties. Then he reversed his course, nipping from her toes to her inner thighs, along her stomach and up to nuzzle at her breasts. He kept his full weight off her, but the bulk of his body dipped the mattress and pressed into her, against her, and the fullness of orgasm turned to an empty ache almost instantly.

Then he shifted, slid up on the bed, and sought her mouth with a kiss that felt suddenly familiar and welcome. She knew this part, this rhythm.

She purred against his mouth and curled her legs around his hips to rub herself against him in a cadence that was warm and wet, and promised wonderful things. She levered herself up, confident that now he would let her have her way with his body, with all that masculine skin and muscles, and with the huge, hard part of him that throbbed between her legs. “My turn,” she whispered into the kiss, and reached for him.

He evaded and rolled fully atop her, pressing her into the mattress as he grinned fiercely down at her. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? It’s all your turn, all for you.” And then he kissed her with aching tenderness, sending a sliver of new, wondrous warmth through her.

“But don’t you want—”

“This is what I want.” He shifted, positioning himself so the blunt head of his cock slipped between her slickened folds and pressed at the entrance to her body. “You’re what I want.”

Her body said “yes” before her mind could catch up—her legs parting and accepting him, curving so one heel slid up and crooked behind his knee. “I—” she began, but then broke off on a gasp when he thrust inside her in a single powerful surge, filling her and setting off a sparkling chain reaction of energy, power and pleasure.