Page 244 of Starside

Then, without any words or warning, the full heat of him is against me.

And I’m glad he can’t see my face, because my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head at the contact. I can’t see him, but I can feel him, and his sheer size against me—

I should have known. Should have suspected. I felt it, that night at the ball. Though now, with him right against my entrance, the clear difference in size has me sweating.

I brace myself, waiting for a flash of pain. Wondering if there is any way to do this that doesn’t ruin me.

But it’s almost gentle, the way he pushes in. And in.

My every nerve seems to flicker on, and this time I do gasp at the fullness, at the stretch, as it becomes immediately too tight. I don’t expect him to stop, but he does. He does, until I can breathe through it.

Then he begins to pull my hips back, inching me farther and farther onto him. Slowly. It happens slowly, slowly, until every thought and feeling and sensation is narrowed to that searing point of contact as he pushes in and in, and, somehow he’s still going.

He pushes in again. Again.

Until I’m so full of him, I can’t think around it, can’t feel beyond him, I can’t get a full breath.

And then, just when I’m wondering how this is possibly going to work, he starts to move.

I curse into the sheets. “Did you have to be so big? I can feel you in my fucking teeth.”

He makes what seems like a tortured sound behind me, but a moment later, his voice is smooth as velvet as he says, “And I can feel you trying not to scream.”

He’s right. Every part of me is clenched tight, because if I let go, if I give in wholly to this building pleasure, I’m going to scream, I’m going to whimper, I’m going to beg, and I’m not going to be able to stop.

He’s going to know he has me all but ensnared, and I can’t have that happen. He can’t know that I’ve never felt anything like this, and that I hate—hate—that it’s coming from him.

My voice is strained as I manage to say, “No. Not at all.”

He laughs darkly behind me, and the sound makes my skin tighten across all the sensitive places I want to be touched. Everywhere is so raw, so needy. The pain has given way completely to a pleasure like melted-down gold, glimmering, sinking down to my core, curling into blinding, building, unrelenting need. He increases his pace, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. “Really? I think you’re lying, Aris. I think you’re a fucking liar.”

I’m surprised I can keep my composure as I say through gritted teeth, “Or maybe you’re not as good at this as you think you are.”

In a flash, he pulls me up, one hand palming my breast, the other firm against my hip, and the next thrust is so hard, so deep, my shoulders hike up. My lips part with a choked gasp.

He laughs against the top of my head. “Like that?”

I don’t say a word. I seal my mouth shut. And his callused fingers just scrape against my sensitive skin, circling my hardened peak, in slow, languid movements, like he has all the time in the world to wait for my response. My pulse races as those rings get smaller. Closer. He’s getting closer and closer to where I need him, and his pace is inching to a crawl, drawing it out—until his rough thumb finally brushes against my nipple, and I almost whimper. He does it again. He pinches it, and heat floods through me, but I keep my fucking mouth shut.

I don’t want him to know that with just a few simple strokes, he’s worked me into an aching, desperate frenzy. I don’t want him to have that kind of power over me. But I’m fighting a losing battle with the moans crawling up my throat, and he fucking knows it. He knows exactly what he’s doing, thanks to my body’s own response to this pleasure, and he growls his approval as he feels just how much I like this. It’s obvious. I can hear the proof of my enjoyment with every thrust, but that’s not enough, he wants words, he wants the truth, and he’s going to drag it from my lips with every punishing brush of his fingers. His callused knuckles scrape below the underside of my breast, testing, teasing, wanting me to cry out. Wanting me to break.

I don’t. A moment later, his other hand splays out across my lower abdomen, pressing down hard as he continues to thrust into me—and I see stars. I fight to breathe. He has me pinned against his muscled body, palming my abdomen like he wants to feel himself inside of me, fucking me like he’s trying to rob me of my sanity, and the pressure builds into a rising, blazing wave of need.

Just when I think I can’t possibly feel any better, his fingers slip between my legs, to the aching core of me, and—

Fuck.

A burst of pleasure races through my veins, and my head is falling back against his chest, and I’m making a sound I’ve never made in my life.

“There it is,” he says, deep voice right in my ear. And then, like a reward, his fingers stroke me into a mess of moans and throaty pleas.

It’s official. He has me. Instead of pinned against a wall with a blade at my throat, he has his rough thumb pressed against my sensitive center, and he knows exactly how to make me cry out for him. I do. Again, and again. I can’t help it. He makes a pleased sound. “You’re going to be screaming my name in no time, Aris. And I’m never going to let you forget it.”

The bastard.

But I’m not the only one enjoying this. I can feel the proof of it, the extent of that enjoyment dragging through me, hard as steel. I begin to grind my hips back, arching my spine, meeting him stroke for stroke. I sink down deeper, taking even more of him.

His movements falter. It’s all the encouragement I need. I don’t stop. I grind back onto him, riding him like this, clenching, writhing.