Extreme Danger. Shannon McKenna
sense of self.
She squeezed her eyes shut. It was a hopeless attempt, doomed to failure, but it made her feel absurdly cherished. She loved him for it.
Something strange was happening to her, as if she were a radio tuning into a brand new frequency. She forgot about the lust-crazed spectators downstairs. An enormous heat was building up, burning in her throat, her chest. Something twisted open inside her. It hurt. And it shone.
She couldn’t tell if it was an emotion or a physical sensation that was clawing through her body. Too intense for pleasure…it was a shrill, piercing rapture, charged with terror. It took her, shook her. She screamed, and fainted.
When her eyes fluttered open again, he was very still. He was soaked with sweat, his big, hot body vibrating with tension.
His eyes were wide. He looked shocked. Almost afraid. He scooped her up again, carried her over to the narrow strip of carpet between the bed and the wall. He bumped down onto his knees, then gently set her down on the thick white carpet. He braced himself over her, lying between her splayed legs, jeans halfway down his thighs. His arms shook. His erection rested, feverishly hot, against the curve of her groin.
She gasped for air, smelled dust, paint, carpet. She reached up to his face, touched his bloodied nose, then the scratches on his jaw.
Sorry, she mouthed.
He shrugged. It’s OK, he mouthed back.
She glanced up towards the video camera, and back at him, silently asking if they were still in its range. He twisted, shook his head.
Becca wiggled, positioning herself. Then she seized his cock, fitting the blunt head against herself. Sliding the tip of him between the folds of her labia. He sucked in a harsh breath, as if he were in pain.
The contact was electric. As if every individual nerve was being kissed, loved. The slow, slick stroke of flesh against flesh was the sum of all those uncountable tiny caresses, all those little tender exchanges.
You sure? he mouthed silently.
She lifted her hips, seeking more of him in answer. Sure wasn’t the word for it. She would implode if he didn’t. She needed him.
He let out a heavy sigh and settled between her legs, letting his weight drive his broad shaft slowly deeper inside her.
She curled herself up, propping herself onto her elbows to watch. His thick hair dangled, tickling her breasts. A drop of sweat from his forehead fell right over her heart. Hot. She touched his cheek again, soothing those angry marks, soothing his taut grimace.
He pushed, deeper. The stretch hurt, but she had never felt so open, so yielding and hungry. She let out a low, ragged moan.
He put his hand over her mouth and shook his head.
She understood. This wasn’t theater. This was real, and just for them. Stolen pleasure. She kissed the palm of his hand. Arched up to take more of him inside herself. He kept his hand over her mouth and it was a good thing, because she could not stop gasping. The pressure kept building. He rocked and she glowed, soft and liquid around his invasion. Every cautious stroke sent jolts of pleasure sparking along her nerves.
He folded her legs higher, going deeper still. He was completely inside. The glow got hotter, sweeter. Her whole body flushed with pleasure.
She’d never given herself to any man on this emotional level. Not from holding back, but simply because she’d never known that it existed. It was like waking up after being asleep all her life. Acquiring eyes, ears, with no warning, no explanation. Everything he gave to her, she wanted to transform and give back to him, tenfold. Blessing him with it.
Not much time, he mouthed. Sorry.
She nodded. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Their hips rocked together in a seductive, swirling rhythm that brought her to constant, endless shuddering peaks and crests of pleasure.
She writhed, body and soul in explosive movement, as energy rushing out of her in ecstatic pulses. Into him, and back again to her, redoubled. And redeemed.
Chapter
8
Back off, dickhead. This is Helsinki Syndrome, or something. A temporary psychological glitch. The woman’s scared, she needs to glom onto something. You’re handy. Don’t get intense about it.
He need not have bothered trying to reason with himself. Not while his body was trying to get as deep inside her as he could. It felt like lightning, blinding him but blazing into every dark, hidden corner of his mind. His desperation laid bare. Death on every side. Get what he could, while he could. Last chance.
So he put it to her, just like she clearly wanted it. Her small, strong body heaved and bucked against his. She clawed at his ass, wordlessly demanding. He gave her what he’d never dared to give any woman; his own hunger hammering away at her, unchecked. His rampaging, oversized prick, driven deep and hard.
She was cushy and tight, milking him with every long, licking stroke, the fantastic friction caressing him, again, again. She took all of him, every inch. Without a condom…God, it felt so fucking good. So hot, so wet.
The room was silent, just muted thuds, ragged breath. He kept her mewling sounds muffled behind his hand. Their time was up, but it didn’t matter. The drumroll in his balls was already deafening him.
From far away in his mind, he remembered that he should yank it out before he came, but it was just a thread of thought, and it frayed into nothing when the torrent raged through him.
His orgasm was a fountain of violent, sobbing spurts that went on and on and on. As soon as he could control his body, he heaved his limp, sweaty torso up off her. She sucked in a gulp of air, eyes fluttering open.
God, she was pretty. Even with her face ravaged by tears and smeared mascara. The running black paint just accentuated how beautiful she was. How intensely bright the color of her eyes.
He levered himself away. Her soft thighs were still clasped around his. She flexed them, hung on. Didn’t want to let go of him.
Her lips formed words, but they were soundless.
“Huh?”
She licked her swollen lips, leaving a glistening film of moisture. “Who are you?” Her whispery voice was ragged from screaming.
He dragged his cock out of the tight clasp of her body. She was dripping with his come. He willed his heart to slow down from that frenzied gallop. “Nobody you should be hanging out with, beautiful.”
He broke eye contact before the tears welling into her eyes could overflow, and flopped onto his side, squished against the wall on that narrow strip of rug. He stared up at the ceiling fan.
He’d cracked. It was predictable, after all the bad shit that had come down. But his timing sure sucked.
He’d had good sex, great sex, even awesome sex, but he’d never had sex that made him think he was losing his grip on reality. He didn’t dare to look at her. He was about to start crying, for fuck’s sake.
Breathe in, breathe out, asshole. Just keep it together. Breathe in, breathe out. That’s the way.
She touched his chest. He recoiled from the contact. “Don’t get mushy on me, beautiful,” he muttered. “It was a great fuck. Leave it.”
Dead, flat silence followed his whispered words. He got that just-kicked-a-kitten feeling again. It felt bad.
She was no kitten, though. She was a bad joke, she was a knife in his back, she was the worst luck he’d ever had. Look at him. Death on every side, and he was fucking wildly on the rug and getting all emotional about it, like a thirteen-year-old who’d just lost his virginity.
Although he did not recall being this emotional when he first did the deed. Even at thirteen, he’d been a tough little bastard. He’d just smoked a cigarette and played it real cool. Hey, babe.