Jenn Bennett - Grim Shadows

A powerful shudder went through her.

“Shh,” he whispered. Heavy heat prodded her lower back. Good God! Already? Her mind flashed back to the night they met and the shock of his erection pressing against her on the back of the moving train . . . and the ensuing panic she’d felt at the shocking intimacy.

“It’s only me,” he whispered against her ear. “Just me.”

She stilled, bracing for the inevitable cringe as his arms wound around her. Tonight she was ready to fight that feeling. To count it away, or drown it in liquor again if she had to. But—

But it didn’t come. Not even when he pulled her tight against the solid muscle of his chest, bare skin against skin. Or when his wet mouth opened against the side of her throat.

This time, she didn’t feel the panic that blackened her senses and stole her free will.

This time, she felt . . .

Safe.

Her body sagged in relief.

She spun in his arms as unshed tears stung her eyes. His mouth crushed against hers, and he kissed her like he was bound for the gallows and she was his last hope for salvation. His hands were suddenly everywhere, all at once, a whirlwind of heat and sensation, sending pleasurable chills over her skin. He pushed her back on the mattress a second before he bent his head to her breast. No soft kisses. No teasing. He just sucked her nipple into his mouth and pulled. Lightning shot down her center, electrifying her with an intense bolt of lust.

He released her flesh with a wet pop and moved his attention to her other breast. She cried out and scissored her legs together in an attempt to get relief from the building ache between her thighs. She was embarrassingly wet, wantonly rubbing herself against his erection . . . drowning in want and a startling neediness. She tried to calm herself down, but some animalistic part of her wasn’t willing. Her legs fell apart around his. His long middle finger parted her damp curls. She jerked and writhed against him.

“You’re so wet. Jesus, Hadley.” Wonder coated his words as he whispered, “You want me.”

More than anything. She moaned, half-ashamed as his hand ran through the slickness that coated her inner thighs. Half-amazed, too. She’d never been so aroused. When his thumb circled her clitoris, she felt a tickling warmth as pooling liquid trickled down her flesh.

Lowe groaned, a rich baritone rumble she felt through her bones. She couldn’t stop her plea from jumping overboard. “Please, Lowe. God, now. Please.”

He immediately pulled away. Where was he going?

She lifted her head to see him reaching for his suit jacket that hung on her bedpost. He fumbled for a small tin and flung the quickly discarded lid on her coverlet—where Hadley caught a glimpse of its printed front, a chariot drawn by a pair of racing lions.

Oh.

Interesting. She’d never seen any in person. She wanted to tell him that she’d followed a new method of counting the days in her cycle. That they should be in the clear. Instead, she found herself caught in a fascinated daze as she watched him retrieve a ring of latex and unroll it down his length. Good grief. He could sell tickets to this show—every hot-blooded girl in town would pay to see such a spectacle. If he’d felt impossibly thick and heavy in her hand minutes ago, he looked even more intimidating now. She didn’t know whether to be worried or impressed.

Impressed, her body decided, as another wave of need warmed her aching sex.

His shadow fell as his body covered hers again, warm and strong and big. A welcome weight. His maimed hand pushed one arm above her head, like she’d pinned him moments before. “It’s only me,” he said again, kissing her bottom lip. Their fingers threaded together as he prodded her legs apart, making room between her thighs for his hips. He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ve never wanted anyone so badly. Never. My God, Hadley. Tell me you want me inside you.”

“Yes.” She could barely speak.

“Tell me.” He guided her free hand to hook around his neck and shifted his weight to his forearms. Back bowed, he pushed himself against her entrance, a teasing pressure that made her want to writhe beneath him. “Say it.”

“I want you—”

He plunged inside her before she could finish. One punishing stroke, no quarter. She cried out, digging her nails into his neck, shocked by the near-painful intrusion.

“Don’t move,” he said sharply as his muscles strained.

She didn’t. Couldn’t. All she could do was hold her breath. One, two, three . . . Her body relaxed. He groaned and pulled back—no!—before pushing into her again, more slowly. Terribly slow. Perfectly slow. Slow enough to make her squeeze her eyes shut as desire rolled through her.

“Yes?” he murmured.

“Lowe,” she answered.

He kissed her and she let go, giving in to the feel of his hips driving against hers and the beautiful friction that whorled between them where their bodies were joined. Her free hand roamed over his warm skin, exploring, delighting in the hard lines of his shoulders and back. The way he shivered beneath her touch when her nails swept down his side.

She stretched out below him, lifting her knees to invite him deeper. They both groaned as her muscles tightened around him. She gasped and shifted her hips, testing the angle until she felt the brush of his wiry curls teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves pulsing in her clitoris.

So much pleasure. Enough to erase years of martyrdom. Every fear, every worry, every night she’d spent alone, wondering if there was nothing more—it was all gone. Swept away. She felt warm tears streaming down her temples as joy caught in her throat.

“Hadley.”

“It’s so good,” she said dumbly.

“This is how it’s supposed to be,” he murmured, kissing her eyes. “This is what I’ve wanted.” His lips pressed against hers and she tasted salt.

Me, too, she thought. And so badly.

Never expect anything and you’ll never be disappointed. She told herself if this was all there was—this closeness, this dismantling of her phobia, this fuzzy pleasure—that it would be enough.

But it wasn’t.

Never mind that she’d had sex with George a handful of times and never once had an orgasm. Or that she hadn’t so much as kissed another man in years. None of that mattered. She suddenly wanted it all, and she wanted it with Lowe. Right now. How easily he’d come apart earlier beneath her inexperienced hand. No shame, no struggle. Just total abandon and trust. She wanted that, too. And when her body greedily fisted around him again, that want intensified into something more than determination.

“Goddamn,” Lowe murmured. “Yes, min älskling, ja.”

O-oh. Oh!

This is really happening.

Urgently needing an anchor, her free hand clung to his straining biceps as her toes curled, bobbing above the increasing pace of his pumping hips.

Sweat beaded on his brow. His fingers tightened around the hand he held captive above her head while he pinned her to the mattress below. She was so close. And so very desperate for it. And within the span of two heartbeats, there was no stopping. A horde of people could burst in the door and she wouldn’t be able to muster enough shame to halt it. She was gone. Lost. Racing toward oblivion and uncertainty and a gathering darkness that threatened to swallow her whole, if she was willing to dive into it.

And she was. God, she was!

The climax ripped through her like a summer storm, jerking a long, carnal cry from her lungs. She came endlessly, pleasure tumbling and shaking and squeezing her until she couldn’t breathe. Until she thought she might die from it. Until she felt Lowe’s body seize and heard his answering roar as he came inside her. He sounded just as lost and bewildered as she felt. And as he collapsed against her, she threw her arms around his neck, curled her legs around his hips, and pulled him down with her.

HADLEY DOUBLE-CHECKED HER BEDSIDE alarm clock. Three. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but must have. The bed was achingly empty. But the panic she’d felt when she first realized this a few moments ago was fading, now that she knew for certain he was still here. She’d never been so happy to hear noise in her apartment. Clinks and bumps, water running in the pipes, cheerful whistling. The pleasant sounds of someone else in her home. And not a maid that would abandon her tomorrow, but Lowe.

Lowe.

She grinned at the ceiling, squeezing her eyes shut as a silent joy washed over her, and pushed out of bed.

After a hurried trip to the bathroom, she slipped into a plover gray Habutai silk peignoir dotted with bright begonias, quickly tying the sash as she hunted the location of the noise. Kitchen. She rounded the doorway, wincing at the harsh pendant lighting reflecting off white subway tile. When her eyes adjusted, she found herself staring at a very interesting view of Lowe’s thoroughly naked backside.

Arm draped over her icebox door, he was bent over, peering inside. Long legs dusted with blond hair supported well-shaped buttocks with muscled hollows. But it was the shadowed glimpse of what hung between those legs that made her chest warm.

My God, the things he’d done to her over the last few hours . . . the things she’d done to him. She could scarcely believe any of it had happened. And now, here he still was. No dream—solid flesh. Very solid flesh. She liked the way his back rippled as he poked through jars and containers. Not much to see. Butter. Fig preserves. Blood oranges. Some cooked chicken for Number Four, who was spooling around Lowe’s feet like they were best of friends.