Page 95 of 'Til All the Seas Run Dry

He sucked harder at her breast, his cheeks hollowed, and he felt her body lowering, seeking him. She’d always been sensitive, and he’d always loved driving her wilder and wilder, watching the control shift as she released it to him bit by bit before surrendering entirely and allowing herself to be taken care of.

Because, when it came down to the barest, baldest truths, that’s all he wanted. It was all he’d ever wanted. To take care of her. For her to trust him enough to let him.

He gripped the armrests hard in his fists, holding tightly, waiting for the scales to tip. It had already begun. Her hips had begun a gradual shift down towards his own until he knew he wasn’t imagining gentle friction. He felt the kiss of her cunt against the head of his cock and nearly tore the armrests off the seat.

“Jory,” he said against her throat, “Dinnae you dare move too fast. I’ve waited nearly a thousand years to have you again. I willnae let you rush it.”

She leaned away enough to look in his eyes, her gaze unfocused and feverishly bright, but she slowed her descent, taking him into her one scant millimeter at a time, making him feel every single clench and flutter and breath, just like he’d asked. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her close, to press his ear against her chest and listen to her heart pounding while he felt its beat with his palm between her shoulders.

Down and down she sank until he found himself enveloped entirely by her heat.

“Christ,” he hissed, and she threw her head back with a little sob, digging her fingernails into the tops of his shoulders.

She rose again, lifting up until he felt the cool air of the vehicle against the damp bottom half of his shaft, before sliding slowly down once more. And then again.

A minute passed with no sound to be heard but Jory’s panting and the wet slide of her body over his. And then a pained cry.

“What’s the matter?” Callum asked.

“It’s not enough,” Jory whined.

“Tell me what you need.”

“More. I need more. I need?—”

“Tell me,” he said, loving the way her weight felt braced against his chest.

Another whine. He knew what she needed. It was as familiar as his own face. Jory liked to be in control until the precise moment she didn’t, until she wanted to let go and not think.

“Can I touch you, mo cridhe?”

“Please,” she sobbed, and in an instant, his hands were on her hips, driving her down hard as he thrust up. She moaned, dropping her head to his shoulder and letting him work her over him.

“More. More, Callum.”

“Hold on, Jory. Dinnae let go,” he said.

And she didn’t.

32

Jory blinked and found herself on her back, her ass just barely hanging off the seat. Callum had her ankles on his shoulders and knelt on the floor before her, thrusting lazily in and out of her grasping cunt. He wrapped one arm tightly around one of her thighs, and with the other hand, he thumbed gently at her clit.

Jory bit her fist to keep from screaming as the sensations rolled over and through her.

“Harder,” she said, her voice hoarse.

He thrust with more force into her. But it wasn’t enough.

“Goddamnit, Callum,” she pleaded. “Fuck me harder. Please.”

He threw his head back, and she saw the strong, corded lines of his throat in the darkness. What would it be like to watch that throat swallow? Swallowher?

“I cannae fuck you harder, Jory. I dinnae want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

He stopped, pressing himself deep into her, grinding his pelvis against hers.