Julia James - Purchased for Passion

Anna let him go on kissing her, moving his mouth on hers, let the hard shaft of his manhood probe at the juncture of her legs, let his hand palm her breast in slow, rhythmic circles as its peak ripened under his touch.

She let herself lie there, spread across him. His hand was at the nape of her neck, the other at her breast, and his mouth was on hers, his thighs hard beneath hers, his shaft strong and seeking.

She had no will, no emotion, only total, absolute submission to sensation—sensation he was arousing from her, stroking from her, caressing from her. A slow, spreading fire started to lick through her. A long, low pulse started in her veins, and in every cell of her body a warm, dissolving heat began to steal.

She felt herself move, press her body along his, felt the hardness of his hips, the lean strength of his smooth, muscled chest. Felt her mouth move, move over his, felt herself start to kiss him back, to seek his tongue with hers. Felt the hunger start, deep, deep within her. Felt her hands curl over his strong, sculpted shoulders, revelling in the touch of his skin beneath her kneading fingers.

The fire was licking now, like flames at dry grass, spreading through her veins. She could hear low, aching moans, and knew they were coming from her throat, but she could not stop them. She had no will, no power.

Something had taken her over. Consumed her so completely, so absolutely, she was helpless in its thrall, in its overpowering, overwhelming need.

A need to move her body over his, touching, seeking, questing, with her thighs tautening, hips lifting slightly, so slightly, but just enough, just enough…

She wanted…

She wanted…

She wanted to feel his hand on her breast, palming it, scissoring rhythmically, pulling at her inflamed, jutting nipple. Wanted the other breast to feel the same. Wanted more, more—much more.

The fire was coursing through her, hungry for more to feed it with. The low, aching moans were coming again, need and ravening hunger.

Hunger for him. For the lean, hard body beneath her. For the silky moistness of his mouth, the sensuous gliding of his tongue, the rich velvet of his lips. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.

Fire licked again, all through her veins, but with a new focus, a new urgent source of heat.

She wanted…

She wanted…

She twisted her hips, feeling the long hardness of his shaft at her belly.

She wanted…needed…

Again she lifted her hips, straining down on him with her thighs, her hands pressing on his shoulders, her breast ripe in his hand, as she writhed against his body.

She felt the tip of his shaft against her, and the fire flamed within her. She reared up, hands pinioning his shoulders, her thighs over his, hair tumbling over her back. And with a last, low, rasping moan in her throat she caught his tip at the vee of her legs, lifting and positioning it just where it had to— had to be.

He let go her mouth, let go her nape, and she threw back her head, rearing up over him. Her eyes were blind, shut, her body one single writhing twist of flame.

His hand glided down her back in a single smooth sweep, splaying over her bottom.

Words came from him. She could not hear them. Could only feel the tip of his probing shaft at the entrance to her inflamed, aching, flooding body.

And she wanted it. Needed it so much that not having it was a torment, a hunger, a desperation.

So she took it.

Took him into her.

His hand splaying across her guided her down on him, slowly, infinitely slowly, and he filled her, stretching and moulding her.

A long, low exhalation breathed from her. He was solid inside her. Solid, and hard and full. For a long, timeless moment she just stayed there, half-reared over him, feeling his fullness inside her, filling her, filling her so completely that she could only stay completely, absolutely still.

Then slowly, very, very slowly, she moved. Indenting her hips, pressing forward.

And the fire inside her sheeted into flame. White hot flame.

A cry came from Anna as her head fell back, helpless, rolling. She cried out again.

‘Is that good?’ Leo’s voice was low. His hand pressed at her, the fingers at her nipple scything her, sending shoots of pleasure through her. ‘Because for me it’s good. But this— this would be better.’

In a single powerful movement he thrust up into her, and the fire sheeted again, burning down through her hands, her feet. She cried out in pleasure again, louder, more helpless.

He thrust again—up, up into her—and there was a place somewhere, somewhere inside her, that was catching fire, and she wanted…

His hand was on her bottom now, kneading and pressing. He thrust again, and the sensation was unbearable. But he thrust again, and her body was melting, and writhing, and burning.

He thrust again. And this time as he thrust she twisted on him with her hips, and again. The rhythm mounted and mounted, and the fire inside her grew hotter and hotter. More cries were coming from her throat, her body one single flame of sensation, and her head was rolling, rolling. She had become a writhing, ravening hunger, and she wanted…needed…

This.

Oh, God, this—this was what she needed!

The place deep within her, which his thrusting fullness had been stoking, stroking, had caught fire. Igniting in a single blazing funnel of sensation, of pleasure so intense, so consuming, that Anna could not breathe, could only gasp.

And then there was another cry, hoarse and urgent, and Leo was thrusting up into her again. Short, rapid thrusts. His hands suddenly on her shoulders, as he jerked powerfully, repeatedly into her, to reap his own unstoppable pleasure.

She collapsed down on him, panting, exhausted, drained. The storm of sensation shaking her even in its dying embers.

She felt a hand smoothing back the hair from her forehead, felt warm breath on her cheek.

‘ Thee mou, I knew you would be good, but—’

His hoarse voice changed to Greek. It seemed to be coming from a long, long way away. Everything was coming from a distance.

Except for one thing. Something black and dark was rolling in, darker than anything she had ever known. Stifling her, annihilating her.

Slaying her.

It was the realisation of what she had just let happen.

The worst thing in the world…

LEO strolled out onto his balcony. The sun was high already, and he was not surprised. It had been a long, long night—but very little sleep had taken place.

He stretched in a pleasurable flexing of his shoulders.

Thee mou, but it had been good! More than that—it had been mind-blowing.

And not just for him. Anna Delane had responded exactly as he had known she would.

She’d gone up in flames.

White-hot, scorching flames.

Again and again—all through the night. Time after time he had taken her, and every time he had drawn from her a response that had had her body shaking, shuddering, had her crying out helplessly, reducing her time after time to exhausted, breathless satiation. She had threshed in his arms, her spine arching, hair wild like a maenad, eyes blind and unseeing as she’d convulsed in the extremity of pleasure, totally, completely possessed by it.

It had been intoxicating.

And incredibly arousing.

There had been something exquisitely satisfying about her helplessly sensual response to his touch. She had not intended it, that was for sure. She’d tried to hold back from him, to be like a statue, a block of wood—rigid and unresponsive. But he’d ignored her sullenness, her obvious determination to cheat him of what he wanted from her. Of what she owed him.