Temptation’s Edge (29 page)

Pleasure poured through her, wave after sinuous wave, curling deep into her belly, spreading to her already clenching pussy, her hardening nipples.

He pushed his fingers inside her, and her body arched off the sofa.

“Oh!”

He began to fuck her with his hand, hard and deep and fast. His mouth on her was just as demanding. Demanding of her pleasure. Demanding that she come. She felt desire rising to a dizzying peak so fast she couldn’t even question it. His hand on her thigh gripped harder, digging into her flesh, and she knew that he was
owning
her in exactly the way she craved. Needed.

Connor. Make me come.

She was unable to speak the words aloud. Yet he got the message, loud and clear. He pumped into her, curving his fingers to hit her G-spot as he sucked on her clit, over and over, his tongue slipping into her opening along with his thrusting fingers. Sensation was an ocean, drowning her as she fell, into the depths, her body shaking as she came.

“Oh…”

He paused to murmur, “That was beautiful, Mischa. Again.”

“Connor, I don’t know—”

“Come again for me.”

He bent to her soaking cleft once more, taking her sore clitoris into his heated mouth. This time he ran his tongue over the swollen tip, gently, gently, making desire course through her, liquid and hot. He understood she was sore, sensitive, but he knew exactly what to do. His fingers pressed into her, more gently this time, barely moving, then he added two more, filling her.

“Ah, God, Connor, that’s so good.”

He twisted his hand as he pressed into her, twisted again on the way out, creating a spiral of sensation that took her right back to that keen edge. And as he gently sucked her needy clitoris into his mouth, his tongue dancing on the tip, she came again, trembling, crying out.

“Connor!”

He shifted, withdrew his fingers, his mouth leaving her, and she was dimly aware of him pulling a condom from the pile of clothes on the floor, the crinkling sound of foil tearing. She forced herself from her post-climax stupor to watch him roll the condom over his big, beautiful cock, watched as he squeezed the base of his thick shaft, heard the small gasping intake of his breath.

She waited, but he held himself over her for a few moments, looking at her.

“You have the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen, have I told you that, darlin’?” he asked, stroking the curve of them with gentle fingers.

She smiled. “You have.”

“Well, ’tis true.” His accent was heavy, his voice low and rough. “And your eyes are the most startling blue. Like the sky. I feel like…” He paused, one finger reaching out to stroke her cheek. “…Like I can fall into them. I do, every time I’m with you, Mischa, my girl.”

What was he saying? Tears stung at the back of her eyes. Her heart was hammering in her chest.

“And when I’m inside you, in your fine, tight body, nothing else matters.” His dark brows drew together. His face was full of need, and something else she couldn’t identify. He slipped his hand between her thighs, into her wet heat, and she moaned. “This is heaven, my girl. But it’s not all of it. Not just the way you
look, the way you feel. It’s your God damn skin. It’s the scent of you making me crazy every minute of the day. It’s…”

He stopped, and she felt as if her heart stopped beating for a moment, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He shook his head, his gaze going even darker with desire. “I have to just fuck you now. Do you understand?”

She nodded, even though she didn’t, really. She didn’t know what he meant, what he’d been about to say, but hadn’t. All she knew was that if he wasn’t going to tell her, having him fill her was the next best thing.

“Open for me,” he said, his tone quieter, yet as commanding as ever.

She spread her legs, wrapping them over his wide back, and he slid home.

His rigid flesh filled her, a little bigger than she could take, but still never enough.

Never enough of Connor.

Don’t think about it.

No, she thought only of the immense pleasure, the shimmering desire flowing through her. The lovely feel of his hard-packed, muscular body crushing her into the sofa cushions. The weight of him holding her down. His heart beating against hers.

Connor closed his eyes, arched his hips, pushing into her slowly, slowly. Pleasure was thick in his veins, in his cock. In his chest, somehow. He didn’t dare open his eyes, to look at her face at this moment. He knew he’d lose it if he did. But when she sighed, he couldn’t help himself.

It was as bad as he’d thought it might be. Or as good. Better. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated, her blue eyes glossy. Her mouth cherry red, even with all her lipstick kissed from her lips.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She was the only woman he wanted.

No.

Just fuck her, now.

He arched into her, felt the tight, velvet sheath of her pussy clasp his cock. Her hands were on his shoulders, then slipping down over his back, making his skin tingle with heat. Making it fucking sing beneath her touch.

Focus.

He slipped out of her, almost to the tip, then plunged deep.

“Ah, Connor.”

Yes, say my name. Need to hear it.

No.

He pulled out, thrust again, harder this time, their pelvic bones crashing. He did it again and again. Her arms went around him, held him tight. Fucking
held
him.

His heart twisted in his chest even as pleasure swarmed him, making his entire body go hot and loose. He was melting. Melting into her.

He kept fucking her, driving deep, his hands in her hair, hanging on to the silken strands as if they were some sort of lifeline. He knew he was pulling too hard, hurting her with his pummeling cock, his hips. Loved that she didn’t do anything but pant, moan. Hold him tighter.

His vision blurred, and she was a watercolor wash of blue eyes, red lips, that perfect porcelain skin. And as his climax roared through him his vision went black and he fell into her. Into her arms. Into her body.

Mischa.

He was in love with her.

No.

He was shaking with an indescribable pleasure. With the pure
thrill of coming into this woman. And with a bone-shattering fear.

I cannot love her.

But I do.

God fucking damn it.

He wanted to pull away from her, but he was too weak from coming. Too weak with the emotion surging through him, like some physical sensation weighing him down. All he could do was collapse onto her, her body soft and still beneath his.

He couldn’t think about this now. Couldn’t figure it out. But there was nothing to figure out. It simply
was
. Not a damn thing he could do about it.

It wasn’t about the sex, no matter how mind-blowing, how fucking divine it was with her, even though that’s when it had hit him. Like a God damn brick wall. But no, it was her. Who she was. The way she thought about things. Her creativity. Her drive.

Had he ever even been capable of this much lucid thought so soon after coming?

He pulled in a breath. Pulled in the scent of her—some exotic spice he could identify only as
Mischa
.

He needed…what? To feel that connection with her in some way other than the sex. Fucking crazy. But it was what it was.

“Mischa.”

“Hmm? What is it?”

Her hands made a languorous exploration of his back, soft fingertips stroking his skin, and he had to pause for several moments simply to feel it.

“Can you work on my tattoo?”

“Of course. When do you want me to do it?”

“Now.”

“Right now?”

“Do you feel able?”

“I can always tattoo,” she answered, a cocky tone in her voice—that fire in her he loved.

“I know it’s late. Can you finish it tonight?” he asked her.

“I don’t mind it being late, and one more long session is really all it’ll take. But you’ll have to let me up.”

He moved off her with some effort. So tempting to stay right where he was, his weight crushing her pliant body into the pillows. But he
needed
her to tattoo him. To work the ink into his skin. To have that moment where it was just the two of them and the sound of the needle buzzing, the endorphins flowing through his system. Her doing what she loved. Doing it with
him
.

She disappeared into the bedroom while he slipped back into his jeans. She came back in black yoga pants and a hot pink thermal shirt that clung to her curves. Her pale hair was the slightest bit tousled, her cheeks still a lovely, blushing pink from the sex. She smiled at him as she passed him to get her red leather equipment case by the front door, and he grabbed her and kissed her briefly but hard on her way back. When he let her go she stepped back, pressed her lips together as she looked up at him, quiet for several seconds. He knew she was wondering what was up with him. He couldn’t explain it to her in any way that would make sense.

Finally she took another step back and turned away. “It’ll take me a few minutes to set up,” she called over her shoulder, moving into the kitchen. “Do you want tea?”

“I’ll make it.”

“The tea is in the cupboard by the sink.”

“Sure, I’ve got it.”

He found the tea, two big white ceramic mugs, and filled the kettle, set it on the stove to heat while she covered the granite bar counter in plastic wrap, squeezed some antibiotic ointment onto the plastic as he’d seen her do before to hold the tiny plastic inkwells
in place. She filled them with black and red ink. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was she did with her machine—something involving some rubber bands and making small adjustments. He’d ask her about it sometime. But not now. Now he just wanted to get started.

The kettle sang and he made their tea, being sure to place her mug a careful distance from her setup on the counter.

“Are you ready?” she asked him.

He nodded, sat on the high stool, leaning his elbows on the sleek, cool granite.

She smoothed an antibacterial wipe over his skin, then went to work right away.

The moment the needle touched his skin was almost like some sense of relief. He breathed into it: the sound, the small sting. The idea of Mischa quietly concentrating behind him. He sank into it, in much the same way a submissive sank into the rhythm of a flogging, or being bound for hours. It was just the two of them, shrouded by the night sky outside the vaulted loft windows. Nothing between them but the humming tattoo needle, her art, his flesh. He let his body relax, his mind as well. He didn’t want to think too much about what was happening to him. About what he felt for her. Some distant part of him could almost accept it. For now, he would let it be—and ignore that “letting it be” had become his new mantra when it came to Mischa, as well as the question of how long he could continue to do that.

Mischa bent over Connor’s enormously wide back, her machine familiar and warm in her hand. So strange that he had asked—demanded, almost—that she tattoo him tonight. Right that minute. Not strange that he was demanding. That was pure Connor. But that he would come out of sex asking for it. What was that about?

Of course she had said she would do it. She found it hard to refuse this man anything. Which wasn’t entirely about his air of authority. But why now?

The sex tonight had been different. No real kink at all, other than that subtle undertone of Connor being in command. But she didn’t think he could be any other way, with her or anyone else, in any aspect of his life. She’d felt so much…had had several moments in which she was almost certain he was feeling it, too. And now he wanted her to tattoo him. Not just tattoo him, but finish the job.

Finished.

Was that what was going on? This instant demand to complete the tattoo. Had he decided he was done with her and he didn’t want the job to remain unfinished?

Don’t get distracted.

But she was good enough at what she did that she could allow a small part of her mind to run independently of the needle. And she knew exactly the detail she wanted to add to this design, had been thinking about it for the last few weeks.

He didn’t act as if he was done with her. But then, she’d always been the one to finish with a man. She had no idea what it was like to be on the receiving end. Maybe this was some sort of divine retribution.

She was waxing too philosophical. Too much while she was working. Too much, period.

She was probably just being paranoid. But she couldn’t help that small, nagging voice in the back of her mind that kept telling her it was over. That they’d had their run and it had been lovely, but Connor had had his fill. Too bad she hadn’t. Too bad she didn’t think she ever would have her fill of Connor Galloway.

It was after five in the morning when she was done. She wiped his skin one more time, admiring her own work. The dragon was massive, covering his entire upper back. It was some of her best work to date, the details perfect: the shaded scales, the red lashing tongue, the wicked points of claw and wing. The attitude of the dragon was perfect for Connor—a beast of elegance and power.