Page 51 of Love Bound

"Look at us," he whispers. "Look."

My hands on his shoulders, I look down to see where we meet, where his skin touches mine, pelvis to pelvis, almost bone on bone he’s so deep in me.

I grip him hard with my sex and pull up slightly.

He arches backward, and those muscled arms drop to either side and tighten as he grips sheets, covers, anything he can. His moan is deep, rumbling in my pelvis and chest. "Jesus."

Now I watch him. When he throws his head back, his throat moves. That pulse in his neck quivers and I know I have him. I sink down again.

He brings his face back up to meet mine. "Claire."

I love watching his face, but then I see he wants to watch mine. And that's when I feel his fingers up against my clit again.

Crying out, I move against him, with him, clenching, feeling him stretch me inside. The tension is too much. With a tiny movement, I feel him move the hood of my clit back, press a thumb there as he pulses inside me.

I come. Wave after wave after wave, my throat widening as a groan escapes from somewhere deep. And I don’t care if he sees me. I want him to see me. I want him to see all of me.

My vagina quivers and then his cock moves again and I shift my weight, put my feet under me, with him still deep inside.

"Claire, what are you doing—" but it's not a question. He reaches up and grips the wrought iron headboard, the long tendons in his arms beautifully tight and hard.

I rise until I am at the apex, his very tip, and I straddle him, feeling the glans of his penis just at the edge of my grip. Then I sink down, hard, to his root.

"Oh fuck!" he gasps, and then, "Sorry."

"Don’t be sorry." Leaning forward I kiss his sweaty forehead and rise again.

"Oh my god, Claire." Just as his mouth closes on my name I slide down again and he groans loudly. His chest jerks forward involuntarily and he barely has the strength to reach for my face.

"Just let go. Let go, Finn." I can sense his surrender as I rise up again. I love the feeling of his cock, how it fits me, how wet I am and how we look together.

My hips move again in slow circles. With each turn, he shudders, gasps, and searches my face. The edges of our sex just graze each other. This is exquisite torture.

I am doing this to him. The power of this hits me, and I grab his face, lean forward sucking in his breath, as I slide my hand down his chest and squeeze a nipple. I come down hard, gripping him with my sex. Then his hips rise to meet mine and he comes, ejaculating, his cock quivering, my face buried in his neck. His strain comes in waves over and over until he drops back.

I shift back on my knees, with him still inside and lay on top of him. Neither of us moves.

I don't know how long it is before we part. Gently, I straighten my legs, trying not to settle more weight on him and I roll over to his good side. My legs shake so badly I'm afraid I won't be able to stand. He slips out of me and I feel the last of our heat leak between my legs. He kisses my cheek and moves slightly, and then he's off the bed and in the bathroom, running water.

"Where'd you go?" My voice sounds thick.

"Tell you what, you just lie there."

"What are you doing?"

"Close your eyes," he says and kisses my eyelids. He moves to my mouth, gently, his tongue finding me sweetly, not deeply, and as he kisses me I feel the warm washcloth between my legs, wiping my thighs, my labia. Then it's just his hand on my belly.

Breaking away, I open my eyes to see him looking at me. I smile. "So, you can multitask?"

"Your skin is beautiful," he says. "You're pink all over." He kisses my hand but I catch him wincing as he starts to lie back. The pain has returned.

"Okay, okay. Now it’s my turn. Lie down." I take the cloth from him and rinse it out before giving it a wring. I return and lay it over his cock and the nest of black hair. The smell of cum is everywhere. My nipples tingle as both tighten.

Slipping on my tank top, I get up, amazed my legs can still move, to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I hear him fold the blankets back so I can slip into bed next to him.

But by the time I return, he's asleep on his back, his dark lashes flat against his cheeks. I light a candle from the mantle and then sit on the edge of the bed and watch him. One arm is out in a sleepy invitation, his torso slightly elevated, his breathing even, and I lick my lips. It’s like I can’t take in all of him at once. I can only do small doses of Finn Colton.

Like just his soft, curling black hair. Or his deadly symmetrical, six-pack stomach. Or his beautiful arms. Or like now, where the covers are just low enough to hit at his obliques and the firelight catches all those delicious shadows.