Pulse Page 18

  I claw my fingers at his scalp. Dig my raised heel into his back. “Yes. Dear fuck. Yes!”

  My words have hardly hit the air when he turns his fingertip into a hot knife, releasing my panties—and baring my mound. As the French Elton John continues to croon around us, the afternoon wind soughs through the apartment with more insistence. It smells like daffodils and lavender and bread and wine, braided atop a breeze of distant traffic and laughing tourists. The textures of vibrancy and life, so perfect for backing the soft hum of his magical fingers against my skin…

  As he rolls and works my labia…

  As he caresses and opens my entrance…

  As he flicks aside the hood over my hottest button…

  “Reece!”

  As he replaces his fingers with his breath.

  “May I, Emmalina?”

  “Yes.” I barely remember blurting it. Begging it? “Please. Please. Yes!”

  And then he’s there. At first just with the tip of his tongue but soon flattening his wet, full flow of worship until I’m on the brink of complete carnal fulfillment…

  And then…

  Directly licking my illicit button…

  Sending me to ecstasy.

  My throat becomes a scream. My body lifts and bursts and transforms, becoming a soaring, sensual seraph bursting into a heaven of nothing but light and freedom and wonder. And I’m flown there by the dark angel himself, who’s scooped me away from the choirs and the harps and the clouds, showing me the true magnificence of paradise. The sun itself.

  But the splendor doesn’t stop there. When my pleasure wanes enough for me to reopen my eyes, I smile with the comprehension that the angel is still here—and is even more beautiful than before. Sometime in the midst of my explosion, Reece freed up a hand to shove his pants down to his thighs. His most glorious part juts proudly in front of him, a stalk of taut purple crowned by a throbbing red crown. But the most stunning sight comes from the cobalt pulses of his veins, glowing and swelling and gorgeous. There is literally no other penis like his on earth, and I make it a point to silently thank the Divine Power who gave him to me.

  Only to me.

  I know that now simply by lifting my head and taking in the silver force of his gaze. By welcoming every drop of love he silently offers…but most of all, giving him my love and adoration in return. And yes, my forgiveness—but only because I know that right now, he needs to see it. To accept it back for himself. To see, across every inch of my face, that he never really needed to ask.

  But I yearn to show that too.

  And I do.

  By reaching for him. By taking his length in my hand and then stroking down to the throbbing balls inside his bulging sack. By bringing my fingers back, savoring the pattern of his veins against his stiff skin. By pressing my thumb into the slit at the top and rejoicing in the milky drop that soaks me in return.

  Then I coax him closer, continuing to marvel at the flawless stalk in my hand that reacts to every one of my touches and squeezes. Still mesmerized by the determined clench of his body, obviously holding back for me…waiting for me to tell him the dark angel can fly free again.

  Even as I pull him closer. Tighter. Raising my leg, still curled atop his shoulder, nearly to my ear. Throwing my other leg over the side of the chair. Aligning my hips to ensure the trajectory of his cock is poised to penetrate the core of my sex. Just one inch farther, and he’ll be stretching every illicit inch of me.

  “Emma.” He’s quivering so hard, it’s nearly one husky syllable. His chest knocks at my sweater because of his labored heaves. With one hand, he grips the back of the chair to keep us both from falling over.

  “Yeah?” I’m panting too, every breath filled with heat and lust and need.

  “May I?”

  A part of me—a huge part—wants to give him hell by just rolling my eyes and guiding him into me, but there’s a huge glitch to that plan. Our eyes are still locked with each other. In that bond is a rare gift from the man. A tunnel down into his thoughts, without the barriers of lightning or lust. Somehow, in some bizarre way, he’s kept all that out of his eyes—allowing me to see the one thing he still needs here.

  The last act of penance he needs to perform for me.

  And damn it, just the comprehension of it makes me three times wetter.

  Holy shit, this is going to be good.

  I take a longer breath, steeling myself. I prepare him by delving my hands back into his hair and tearing at the sweaty strands until he hisses from the pain. Despite that, the need in his gaze goes on.

  Yeah. He’s ready too.

  So I jab my chin up at him and order in a low snarl, “Say it again.”

  He gulps hard. His jaw turns to a brutal slash of flesh against bone. From gritted teeth, he answers, “May…I?”

  I give him a sultry smirk. “May you do what?”

  “May I…fuck you?”

  “And how will you do that?”

  His lips part on harsh huffs. A new bead of precome teeters at the end of his crown. “With…with this.”

  “With what? The words, Reece.” I yank at his hair again. Smile a little wider. Turning the sexual tables on him is a better rush than I anticipated. “Give me the words. All together.”

  “May I…fuck your cunt…with my cock, Emmalina?”

  He’s shaking like an addict in detox now. And as weird as it sounds, I’m savoring the hell out of every moment. I’d hate myself for the twisted sadism, except that I know with every fiber of my being that he’s basking in the switch as thoroughly as I am. Maybe even more.

  With that recognition in my arsenal, I brace my hands at the sides of his fierce, sculpted face. Burrow my nails into the perspiration at his hairline. Use that leverage to haul his mouth down to mine, where I punish it with a brutal, biting, ravenous kiss. I don’t stop until he moans from the pain and a bead of bright red blooms on his bottom lip.

  As the drop of pure white falls from his cock.

  And now, heaven and hell can merge.

  “Give it to me,” I order him in an urgent rasp. “Fuck me with it. Hard. Until we both— Ahhhhh!”

  As he thrusts his lightning cock into me, he pushes his mouth back onto mine. Taking over both my holes at once with the brutal beauty only he can bring to me. In my pussy, I’m stretched and pounded and claimed. In my mouth, I’m ravaged until I taste the tang of his blood and feel the start of his orgasmic moan. I breathe hard and deep, my lungs filled with lavender and spring, attempting to borrow their essence to soften my body and welcome him deeper. It’s no use. He’s going to take the space, whether I give it or not. He fills me, invades me, dominates me, drenches me. The symbolism is right there on the floor, as the water from the pan splashes out farther with every one of his bestial drives.

  His face, still framed by my hands, turns savage and stark. His stare flares as he licks and sucks along both my lips, until his passion clearly takes over and he slams a hard, ferocious kiss on me…into me.

  “Give it to me, Emma. All of it.” He rears up over me, impaling me with the blistering blue force of his mesmerizing, miraculous gaze. “Tell me you will. All the fucking words.”

  And just like that, the world is right again. We’re all right again. The joy of it detonates through me, supplying everything he demands from the willing reaches of my heart. “I will. You’ll have it all,” I rasp. “I’ll come for you, Reece. My pussy needs to come for you. Oh…God. I’m close. I’m close…”

  “Me too. Oh, my little fucking Velvet…”

  “I’m…I’m going to…”

  “Wait for me, baby.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You can. You will.” He secures the leg he didn’t dip into the pail, the one now powering most of his thrusts. “Fuck, Emma! So good! So…fucking…”

  “Reece!”

  “Now!” He bellows it while screwing into me so hard, I swear I feel it in my eyes. Once he’s in, he stays, pushing at the walls of my sex as his cock bursts
and floods me with streams of heat and electricity and energy. The fireworks double the slam of my climax. It’s beyond intense. Beyond reality. Beyond any pleasure I’ve ever known possible. I’m lost to a long scream as Reece utters from between his bared teeth, “Emma. Emmalina. Holy God. You’re tearing me apart. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  He’s completely serious.

  He really doesn’t want me to stop.

  And, insanely, makes good on his promise by riding me through a third and then fourth climax, each implosion even better than the last. Holy hot pursuit, Bolt Man. In this case, I can’t even laugh to myself about it, because it’s the truth. As much of a turn-on that it can be to watch the man go after criminal assholes, there are no graphic novel adventures that can take the place of a front-row seat for the guy’s pursuit of giving pleasure…over and over and over again.

  The Carnal Crusader has triumphed yet again.

  Up, up, and holy fuck me away.

  When I’m finally nothing but a ball of satiated mush, he stands—a miracle in itself because I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do so again—and kicks his pants off the rest of the way before lifting me out of the chair and carrying me into the living room. There’s another big throw blanket draped on the back of the couch, which he pulls free and uses to wrap around us both.

  For long minutes, we both are simply still, catching our breaths and regathering our thoughts, as the Paris afternoon gives way to a warm spring night. Outside, the buzz of traffic becomes a calmer hum. The lavender and daffodils on the air give way to night jasmine, along with the aromas of more savory foods—resulting in a lion suddenly making itself known in my stomach. Then again.

  After the second growl incites Reece to a long chuckle, I press my flushing face into one of his pecs.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?” He pushes his lips to my temple. “In the last twenty-four hours, you’ve had a few cups of coffee, one apple croissant, and two-point-five pink macarons.”

  I giggle. “Yeah, but what macarons.”

  “Now my favorite cookies.” He nestles me a little closer and starts to scrape the hair off my face. Dear God of all that’s good in this world. What’s the next entry in the postcoital guidebook after hot mess? I’m sure the French have some eloquent phrase for it, and I’m glad they’re all out shouting and honking at each other on the street instead of up here to see my rat’s nest hair and fucked-twice clothes.

  Then again, maybe they’d all just be jealous.

  Not that I want to dwell on that useless emotion ever again.

  Not that I’m promising myself that I won’t. But right here and now, I’m just promising myself that I’ll try.

  “Hey.” His murmur vibrates into my hair, already sizzling because of the lasers he’s just pried into my mind. Damn the man and his crazy ESP, which always seems tuned to the frequency of me. “What’s going on up here?”

  Okay, so the sex fuzzed him out a little too. His lasers aren’t fully back online, since he actually had to ask. And it’s not that I don’t want to spill to him, but I’m enjoying the small respite from our deep and intense mode, especially after he turned the apartment’s kitchen into a temporary chapel. Which still has me wondering if we should prioritize Notre-Dame on the sightseeing list for tomorrow…

  “Emmalina?”

  I sigh. So much for pretending I didn’t hear him this time. “Yes, sir? How can I be of service to you this fine evening?”

  “Hmmmm.” He props his head a little higher against the couch. “For starters, how is it possible that you’re still wearing every stitch of clothing you got here in?”

  I quirk up a brow. Glance over my shoulder toward the kitchen floor, where my seared-apart panties rest in a puddle of sloshed foot bath water. “Not every stitch.”

  He chuckles. “Good point.”

  In the ensuing stillness, I violate my own mandate to keep this break light and frothy. But he did ask about the grease in my mental gears, and he has a right to know. About all of them.

  “You know, mister…” I push up a little, propping my chin on my curled hand. “That was pretty astounding.”

  There’s a new tightness at the corners of his eyes, and his lips form a firm line in the middle of his stubble forest. “For me too.” He circles his fingertips along my cheek, my chin, my neck. His gaze is steady, silver, and unblinking. Next to my elbow, his ribs expand and fall from his fuller breaths. “Thank you, my beauty.”

  “For what?” I’m truly perplexed.

  “For hearing what I couldn’t say.” The tension closes in over his brow now, setting furrows into it. “For just…being open.”

  I extend a few fingers up, smoothing the tips along both thick arches of his eyebrows. “I’ll always be open,” I whisper. “If you find a way to talk to me, I’ll always be here to listen. You and me…we don’t always need words.” I flow my hand back down and rest it on the middle of his chest now. “We just need these.”

  He slides his hand down and rests it against the middle of my sternum. “I’ll always hear you too.” A leaden gulp thuds down his throat. “Christ, Emma. I can’t imagine not hearing you. Not listening for you…”

  As he cuts in on himself with his own frustrated grunt, I lean up to capture his lips once more with my own. “I know,” I tell him once we’ve dragged apart. “I know.” Then I kiss him again, knowing he needs that too—especially because of where I’m about to go with our subject matter. “For the record, not all of the drama here was your doing, either.”

  Reece shakes his head. A bunch of his hair flops into his fresh scowl, but I steel myself against pushing it out of the way. Lydia’s right about that stuff. It needs its own Instagram page, especially so I’m not so tempted to indulge myself in times like this.

  “Let’s not go there.” He throws up one hand. “I know, I know. You feel like you overreacted and then ran away before we could talk it out. Both valid, both true—but both wouldn’t have been necessary had I trusted your input about this part of the game. Last-minute necessity or not, I was still approaching all this like the sole guy in charge of the mission instead of the guy with a partner at his side.” He glares up at the ceiling and shoves a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t until I ran the plan by Foley and he asked me if you’d been briefed about everything that I even comprehended the misstep.” His mouth thins. “He was the one who laid the proverbial cards on the table for me—though we happened to be standing in the john at the Brocade, right before you and I left for the airport, when he did.”

  A laugh tumbles out of me—spurred significantly by the first half of his confession. A man with a partner by his side. Holy hell, that feels nice.

  “Well, maybe it was your turn for the crazy public restroom confrontation of the week.”

  He chuffs. “Except that Foley’s message wasn’t so crazy.”

  “And maybe Tyce’s wasn’t either.” I hate putting a figurative sledgehammer to our exchange, but as long as we’re revisiting reality, I take the chance to plunge in and go there. “Speaking of which…did you hear from either him or your dad during my petit somme?”

  His hair falls back into his face as he gives me the physical negative on that. “To be honest, I’m not expecting anything this soon.” He lowers his hand, scrubbing it down his face. “Dad and his squad are likely regrouping. Floating all the test scenarios and hypotheticals, weighing whether it’s better or worse to give the prodigal Bolt Boy another chance.”

  I press my hand to the middle of his chest again, scraping my fingertips in the dip between his muscled slabs. “I know this can’t be easy, baby.” I don’t hold back on the empathy, as much for me as for him.

  He curls his other hand around to brush my ribcage through my sweater. “It’s all right,” he affirms. “I mean, Chase is probably having the time of his life with the graphs and readouts. And it’s not like you and I are sitting around twiddling our thumbs.”

  I reward him for the opt
imism with a tinkling laugh. “Oh, yeah. Paris has been a blast so far.”

  Though he gets the humor and even joins in the chuckling, I’m all too aware that the sentiment doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes—even as he suddenly rolls up, springing off the couch as lithely as a panther hopping off a tree. “Up,” he commands after whirling back around, offering his hand. “You’ve got me on a mission now.”

  On my feet now, and with every one of his tall, naked muscles at my thorough disposal, I slip my arms around his waist before forming my hands to the perfect spheres of his ass. “Ohhhhh,” I hum. “Am I part of that mission?”

  He dips his head, taking my lips in a slow, thorough, mushy mauling. And the best part? He does nothing to dislodge my caresses from his backside. “Mon petit,” he growls lowly. “You are the mission.”

  “This is sounding better by the second.” I quip it as he yanks me toward the bedroom, though my pout comes out as he keeps going, landing us both in the bathroom. “Hey. I think you missed a turn back there…”

  “Nope.” He’s all rogue panther mystery, even while cranking the shower on and tucking in his hand to check the water temperature. “We’re getting cleaned up, and then we’re going out. The museums and cathedrals may have to wait, but your ‘Paris blast’ starts tonight with dinner at Lasserre and that shopping you really need.”

  Okay, so now I’m squirming. And maybe jumping. A little. But honestly, I’m not certain what has inspired this excitement more—the treat of a date night ahead or the way in which he’s promised it. No. Commanded it.

  As they say in this land, mon freaking Dieu. The man has taken my breath away from the very start of our relationship, but instead of slowing down on the sigh factor, he just keeps cranking shit up. Higher and higher…and higher. Especially now. Especially today. From being the wicked beast who obeyed all my erotic commands to being the worldly wolf who now strips me and then steps into the shower with me, he’s taking me back to the clouds again—then even higher than that as soon as we’re beneath the spray together. With wordless authority, he twirls a finger, silently commanding me to pivot so my back is to him and the hot water cascades over my front. It feels amazing, but that’s just the prelude. I release a long, nearly orgasmic moan the moment he squirts some shampoo into my hair and begins to lather me up with smooth, sure strokes.