One Summer At The Beach. Natalie Anderson
her shoulders and chest until her entire torso had been touched by his beautiful mouth. His hands worked in accompaniment—trailing fire, teasing, tending to the parts of her that his mouth wasn’t fixed to. Meantime she tried to take in air.
He slid down the bed, between legs she’d happily parted. He placed one knee over his shoulder, so he could kiss along the inside of her leg. ‘That OK for you?’
Nothing beat the sensation of his stubble gently rasping against her inner thighs. ‘Uh-huh.’
He lifted her other leg over his other shoulder so his head was cradled between her thighs. She was hot and wet and he hadn’t even touched her yet—not there. She could hardly wait. She raised her hips, wanting to rock them, wanting him to rub and rotate and reach right into her.
His lips curved and her desire to have them press against her became paramount. ‘Rhys.’
He bent his head and she stopped breathing altogether. When she started again, it was even faster and shallower. Her entire body beat to the pulse of his movements, to the rhythm of the blood in her veins. She’d never lain like this. Never wanted anything or anyone the way she wanted him doing this, like this.
His fingers stroked, his mouth teased. And all the while she got hotter and wetter and way more vocal about what she wanted—for once in her life she had someone listening, who was willing to take her where she wanted to go at the speed she wanted to go at. She was on the journey and he was the chauffeur. She called out, encouraging him, so close.
He raised his head. ‘Need to slow down a second, honey.’
Why?
His half-smile at her expression inflamed her. When he gave her the reason he nearly sent her over the edge. ‘I want you really ready.’
She was ready alright. She was beyond ready.
Suddenly he rose, kneeling, hands on her calves. As if she were a doll, he scissored her legs, pushing one right above her head. He looked intrigued. ‘You weren’t kidding about the splits.’
She grinned and shook her head. Pliant, she stretched for him. He wound her other leg around his waist. The position had her so exposed. His hand hardened round her ankle, the look on his face intensified as he gazed down the length of her leg with wicked intent. Aroused beyond bearing, she could hardly stand the wait.
He arched over, bringing his hips into line with hers. ‘This is going to be as deep as it can get. That OK?’
Of course it was OK. She was just damn glad she’d done all that yoga and had no problems with flexibility. ‘Yeah.’
He edged in a fraction and then, with his other hand pressing on the mattress beside her hip, penning her in place, he caught her eye and thrust fiercely.
She cried out. Deep wasn’t the word.
His eyes narrowed; she could see the tension in his jaw. ‘OK?’
She nodded. More than OK. More than anything she’d ever known. Her body half lifted off the bed with him as he tilted back, pausing before pushing in again.
She couldn’t hold back the whimper—of delight and of desire. This was incredible.
‘You want physical, Sienna?’ He gulped in air. ‘I can do physical.’
She picked up what he’d left unsaid. ‘Just physical?’
He puffed out. ‘Yeah.’
Fine. At least he was honest. Besides, she’d be gone in a week, and she was living right now. ‘So do it.’
He didn’t need telling again. Slowly, but with the impact of a ten-tonne truck, he surged into her, grinding deep before pulling back inch by devastating inch.
She’d never been so totally possessed. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even embrace him back, instead she reached her arms up above her head and took hold of the railing of the headboard—trying to keep as in control as him but with every deep, powerful thrust he took a little more from her.
‘You like it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want more?’
‘Yes.’
‘Harder?’
‘Yes.’
And from then she couldn’t speak, could only moan and not even do that consciously. All she could see was him. All she could feel was him—he was touching her innermost core, and it was so sensitive, so exquisite, she honestly thought she couldn’t cope. The heat in her body was so intense she shied from it, shook her head, wanting it to stop, never wanting it to stop.
He spoke. Growled at her as he slowly pulled out. ‘Give me that fearless response I had last night. You don’t want fear from me—well, I don’t want fear from you either.’
He pushed harder on her leg, parting her further so she was so open, so that each time his body slammed forward as much of him entered her as was physically possible—and then some. His pace increased and her consciousness receded. His pelvic bone rubbed against hers—tormenting her, bringing her closer and closer to an oblivion she couldn’t contend with.
She held tighter to the rail. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t…
‘More?’ His hand gripped, his muscles bunched, his expression showed his thin grip on his self-command.
She couldn’t resist. Gave in to the overwhelming instinct to surrender. ‘Yes. Oh…’
He pounded. She lost it. Closed her eyes against him, screwed them tight in the agony of ecstasy, her scream sounding around the room.
His body locked rigid as he uttered one word before giving in to the tension, the demand to drive deep and hard that one last time and pour his all into her.
‘Perfect.’
‘WE NEED to rest a while.’ Rhys reached down to the side of the bed, brought back up a bottle of water and held it for Sienna to sip before drinking deep himself. He caught her eye and winked. ‘Not bad.’
She lay, gasping for air, wondering if she’d ever catch her breath again. Knowing that when she did, she was asking him to do that again. And again. Blood pounded through her body, singing through her veins. She’d never felt so alive.
‘Tell me about it now.’
‘The scar?’
He nodded.
Why hold back? He hadn’t been lying when he’d said she didn’t scare him. He’d just taken her apart and put her back together and shown her she worked just fine. She could tell him it all, knowing he wasn’t going to treat her any different—he’d proved that magnificently. ‘I was born with a heart condition. My valves didn’t work properly and eventually I had to have a couple replaced.’
‘Valves?’
She nodded.
He nodded with her. ‘How did they find out about it?’
‘My dad died from a heart condition when I was little. He was young—it was really hard on my mum. She got worried that my brother and I might have inherited a weak heart. So she got us checked out and they found it.’ She grimaced. ‘Then it was all on.’
‘What was on?’
She understood the way her mother had reacted, why she’d gone so over the top—she’d never got over her husband’s death. She didn’t want to lose another of her loved ones. Seeing her pain had made Sienna’s decisions for her own future—she couldn’t control how Jake and her mother felt, but she could stop how other people felt about her. She refused to burden anyone else with that kind of worry, that heartache. And she refused to