She smiled. One of those powerful, feminine smiles he never allowed his women.
A slow blink, a rise and fall of long lashes over those violet eyes, and the smile softened. She walked to him, long legs scissoring, breasts gently lifting and falling with each breath, and he lost himself in his need. Lost his control, knowing it showed. Her eyes widened but she kept her smile. Equal. He allowed her that for now. They came together, mouths crashing, lips mashing against teeth, tongues duelling. He fisted one hand in her thick hair to anchor her against his sensual assault until he pulled away to breathe. Her face was flushed, lips swollen and when her eyes fluttered open they were dazed with lust and lack of oxygen, the purple hue soft, lighter than the flowers of the same color.
“Do you have a bed?” He hardly recognized his own voice.
“Door on the left.” Hers was barely above a whisper.
Dean snagged the bag on the way by, dragging her along with him, reluctant to release her for an instant. She pushed open the door she’d indicated and flicked on the light switch. Her hand trembled and he could feel the desire rolling off her like a tangible thing.
Two small lamps beside the bed illuminated a room sharply contrasting with the austerity of the rest of the house, very different from the kitchen and the work space. This was a retreat, a cocoon. A queen sized bed predominated, a tall brass headboard and foot board anchoring it to the hardwood floor, the thick nap of area rug squaring off the perimeter. A puffy white comforter scattered with tiny white flowers covered the mattress. Several pillows layered the head of it, a small black stuffed animal tucked into their midst, and a chair with classic lines filled one corner. He took his surroundings in with the skill of long, necessary practise before his attention was wrenched back to Amy.
Setting her crossed hands at her waist she tugged the bottom of her shirt up and over her head, tossing it across the chair. Busy fingers worked her jeans button and zipper, next pushing them down the long length of her legs. She stepped out and kicked them aside then advanced on him. The pink lace of her bra didn’t cover the darker points of her nipples and the little briefs clung to her wet apex. The evidence of her need further diminished his control. Dean impatiently yanked his shirt out of his jeans and popped at least one button taking it off. His jeans barely cleared his ass before she was on him, her silken length a sensory explosion against his skin. They tussled for control, falling crossways across the bed, the comforter huffing beneath their combined weight.
He pinned her wrists above her head, feeling the fine bones under his hand. Looming over her to stare into her eyes, searching for something maybe, a reason for his need to pursue her, but his physical need superseded it. She panted beneath him, small whimpering sounds emerging on every exhale. Easing the fine chain of her necklace aside, setting his lips on the pulse beating at the base of her throat, he suckled her, then traced a path with his tongue to the point between her breasts where her bra thwarted him. He popped the front clasp with his thumb and her mounds spilled forth, pushing the cups aside, umber nipples beaded into tight points. His mouth closed around one tip, a hand moulding the other, fingers rolling and pulling the bud. Amy whimpered louder and arched into his touch, her legs writhing to push between his, her heels hooking over his ankles.
He couldn’t hold on and released her hands to slide down her body, kissing and licking a path to her underwear, slipping them down over her hips and off her body as he knelt between her legs. A swollen, pink pussy was unveiled, wet and welcoming, the scent fresh as the sea. Fuck. He wasn’t coming in his shorts like a teenager with his first impending lay. The box of condoms resisted his fumbling hands, the cardboard finally tearing, a shower of foil packages spraying to fall over them like confetti at the Super Bowl. Ripping open a package, Dean pushed his boxers down and sheathed himself, wincing at the sensitivity of his begging cock.
Amy spread her legs wider, labia parting in invitation to reveal slick, red inner lips, and he literally mounted her, a stallion in rut, resting his weight on one hand planted beside her, the other guiding his erection to notch it at her gate.
Incredible, wet heat engulfed his cockhead, sucking at it like a little mouth and he pushed against the outer ring guarding her entrance, gaining entry with some difficulty. She was soaked, wet and slippery but so very tight, the walls of her sheath grudgingly parting to allow him to gain deeper access, squeezing him, making him pant with the effort to hold off his release. Sweat beaded on his brow and broke out at the base of his spine. At last he was seated to the hilt, balls cradled against the curve of her buttocks. Amy moaned beneath him, her hands fluttering the length of his back, soft full thighs rising to grip his hips. When her calves locked behind his knees, hands settling flat against his shoulders, Dean reacted to the way she held him, close, wrapping him up. For a moment he gloried in this feeling so right, like coming home, before his brain automatically rejected the intimacy and his lust took command.