She was used to riding; he realized what that meant as she continued to meet him, her body supplely flexing in his arms. She could very likely last as long as he could-which was a thought to make a strong man weak.
It only made him more rigid, more engorged. Her murmur as she adjusted was not one of complaint. So he held her lips with his, held her steady before him, and gave her what she deserved-a long, slow ride to delight.
Flick followed his lead eagerly, delighted to find that she could. That the steady rhythm hadn't overwhelmed her, although at first she'd thought it would. That first instant of feeling him deep within her-even now, she gasped at the sensual memory. She still felt their joining keenly, the internal pressure, the fullness that was so strange, especially as she'd never felt empty there before. But now he was riding so smoothly, so deeply, so effortlessly into her, some part of her wits had reengaged.
Certainly not all of them. It was as if the heat between them had reached a new level, another plane, leaving her reeling in pleasured delight but with enough wit to appreciate the sensation. As for her body…
On a gasp, she pulled back from their kiss to draw in a labored breath, aware of her body arching in his arms-aware to her toes of why. Her skin radiated heat, as did his. But aside from the heat, it was very like riding. She hadn't realized it could be done like this-she was finding it quite easy to cope.
He ducked his head; she felt his lips sear her throat. She clung to his broad shoulders and tipped her head away so he could sear as he would. She lifted her heavy lids to regauge their position-she pressed her hips closer, gripped his hips more tightly and splayed her hands over his back.
And caught sight of the mirror on the wall by the door. Directly opposite.
The reflection in the mirror stole her breath, focused her wits and transfixed her attention. In utter fascination.
She could see his naked back, down to his calves, see the flexing of his spine as he drove into her, see his buttocks clench and ease in time with their riding rhythm.
The view was enthralling.
She couldn't help but remember Bletchley in similar circumstance-which left her feeling like the cat who'd secured the prize cream. There was absolutely no comparison-not at any level. Not in the long, taut, steely muscles flexing in back and legs, not in the tight muscles that bunched and thrust, not in the steady, effortless rhythm, and certainly not in the powerful result.
Each deep thrust filled her completely, each movement effective, efficient and seemingly effortless-the outcome of harnessed, concerted power. Controlled power.
Bletchley had flailed and thrashed on top of his woman. In complete and stark contrast was the way Demon filled her. Deeply. Relentlessly. And oh, so repetitively.
Watching him thrust, feeling the result deep within her a split second later, focused her mind on the sensation, and drew her back into the maelstrom. Into the heat, and the swirling build of sensation.
Her lids were falling, her eyes almost shut when he changed his movement into a rolling thrust. She saw it-then felt it. She shut her eyes tight to better savor the moment-then quickly opened them again. To watch, and match her anticipation more acutely to his rhythm, to be ready to make the most of each sliding thrust, to shudder in his arms as he drove more deeply-to eventually let her lids fall as their glorious heat reached a new peak.
It was like riding at flat gallop through a fire.
Excitement, tense and searing, gripped her-along with a driving, compulsively urgent need. They were both breathing hard, both reaching deep-for the energy, the strength, to make the final dash.
He turned his head and their lips touched, but only briefly; she felt his hand slide, hot as a brand, up under her chemise. Skin to hot skin, he closed his hand about her breast. His fingers shifted; he found her tightly furled nipple. And pressed.
She cried out-the sound, laden with sharp delight, echoed through the room. His hand shifted on her flesh, and she was burning, burning-incandescent within.
Heat and flames were everywhere, raging through her-molten rivers of pleasure and urgent need flowed, a hot tide, from where they joined. The tide swelled, reaching ever higher, consuming her body, buoying her mind, her senses-lifting them high on a rush of pure passion.
Higher-ever higher.
His hand slid over her fevered flesh, from breast to hip, then around to her rear. He caressed her there-with a smothered gasp, she locked her arms about his shoulders and lifted slightly; instantly, his hand slid lower, caressing her bottom knowingly, evocatively, possessively, then reaching further to trace the line beneath the tight globes.
She shuddered-and felt like she was shattering. Blown apart by the heat and the burgeoning frenzy. He set her down and tipped her back, his hands once again at her hips. He angled them; without thought, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his waist.
Instantly, he filled her deeply, completely; as he drew back, his fingers slid into the damp curls between her widespread thighs, straight to the nubbin of flesh he'd earlier teased.
He touched her there-and reality shook. She clutched tight-in desperation, she tried to cling to her wits, to her spiralling senses…
"Let go." His lips touched hers briefly-hotly. "Throw your heart over."
She heard the raspy order as he touched her again-she obeyed, and soared high.
Her world exploded.
She lost her senses utterly-lost all touch with reality. She was swept up by a force she couldn't describe-hot and powerful, it propelled her into pleasure. Deep, bone-melting pleasure.
It surrounded her like a sea, and left her floating in ecstasy.
To her surprise, her senses returned, heightened but focused solely on him. She felt his hard hands, first gentling, then gripping her, felt the force surge and sweep through his body-and into hers as he drove deep into her molten flesh. She heard his guttural groan as the force caught him, too.
Then he joined her in the void. She felt the warmth of him deep in her womb. Felt the heat of his body beneath her hands as she clung to him, and surrendered.
To the force behind their passion.
Eons later in the depths of the night, she awoke. Slowly, as always. Her mind struggled free of the wisps of sleep, only to slide into mists of confusion.
Her nerves made the dizzying leap from somnolence to excitement-befuddled by sleep, she couldn't understand why. It was full dark. She was lying on her back in the middle of a comfortable bed. A tickling sensation-it had started at the base of her stomach, just above her curls-that was what had woken her-was slowly progressing up her body. Over her stomach, past her navel, over her waist, steadily upward.
Some part of her mind was shrieking for her to react-but her limbs were too weighted-pleasurably weighted-for her to make any rash move. The tickling changed to nuzzling beneath her breasts, then warm kisses followed one curve up and over.
Demon's mouth closed over her nipple.
She sucked in a tortured breath and abruptly came to life. Not, however, quite as her mind intended. Held between his hands, she arched, flagrantly offering her breast-he accepted immediately, laving the tip, then taking it deep in his mouth.
Flick heard a soft, strangled cry-then realized it was hers. The searing wetness shocked her anew. Opening her eyes, she looked down. "What-?"
She couldn't see him in the dark, but she could feel him. Her heart hitched, then started to canter as she felt his hair-roughened legs between hers, the solid weight of his hips spreading her thighs wide. The heat of his body as he hovered over her, mere inches distant, sent her heart into a gallop. When she realized that her senses hadn't lied-that there was no longer any garment, no matter how fine, between them, that his wicked lips and wickeder mouth were teasing her bare skin, and that, any second, his hard hot body would lie directly, skin to naked skin, on hers-her heart started to race.