Chapter Five
He kissed her with an aching poignancy, one that made her soul sing and her body warm. It didn’t take long for the kiss to change, for his passion to rise and overcome his tenderness.
He fisted his hand in her hair and yanked, positioning her, holding her where he wanted. And he feasted.
She loved it. Loved the furor of his passion, the storm of it. His other hand roved, exploring her body, cupping her breasts, thumbing a nipple, scudding down to her waist and sinking into the flesh of her hips. He found the tender spot at the crux of her thighs and stroked her there through her jeans. He was not gentle. She did not want him to be.
And as he explored her, she explored him. His shoulders, broad and strong, the bulging muscles of his biceps, the powerful slabs of his chest, his thighs. It was only natural for her to stroke his cock, to test his girth. To enclose him.
He reared back. His eyes were red, his features taut. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?” She went for a teasing tone. She shouldn’t have. Not when he was in this mood. He was a beast in this mood.
“Don’t,” he growled with a ferocity that startled her, but then he added, “I don’t have much self-control when it comes to you.”
Excellent.
She must have grinned because he glowered and gave her a little shake. “I want this to last.”
She did too.
But driving him wild had its merits.
She fixed her features into a pout and rubbed her belly against his hardness. “Tell me what you want me to do,” she said in a little-girl voice.
His nostrils flared.
He lurched back, putting some distance between them. And while she didn’t like the distance in the least, his expression was…fascinating. Fierce and ruthless. He tipped up his chin and stared at her, down the long blade of his nose. He crossed his arms; his muscles bunched. “Strip.”
Oh holy God. Her knees nearly collapsed.
“You want me to strip?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t talk back.”
She lifted a shoulder and sashayed closer to the bed. “I wasn’t talking back. I was just asking for clarification. I mean—”
“Strip.”
A sizzle of arousal whipped through her. She peeped at him over her shoulder. He was so indomitable, so powerful, so gorgeous standing there, staring at her with lust written all over his face.
“All right.”
It was a damn shame she was wearing sweats. They hardly made for an effective striptease, but she did her best. “Like this?” she asked, toying with the hem of the sweatshirt.
His eyes locked on her hands. His muscles tightened. His throat worked.
She raised it slowly and then brought it back down. He growled. She turned around and—smiling to herself—whipped it off.
“Face me!” Oh God, she loved the hint of entreaty, the thread of desperation in his voice.
She turned around slowly, her hands covering her bare breasts.
“Arms at your sides.”
She fluttered her lashes. “But I’m shy.”
She wasn’t. Not in the least, but she knew how the words would affect him, and they did. They prodded the predator within him. He tautened to the point she could see his tension. He vibrated with it. He wanted to pounce; it was taking everything he had to hold back.
It was glorious.
She couldn’t wait until he did. Couldn’t wait until he pounced.
Holding his gaze, she lowered her hands. His attention flicked to her breasts and he licked his lips. “Finish it.” Harsh, hard, broken words.
She ran a finger around the band of the sweatpants. He watched, tracking each and every move. When she hooked her thumbs in the elastic, he sucked in a deep breath.
Slowly, so slowly, she slipped them down.
He released his breath in a long, rippling sigh.
“God.” A prayer. “God.” A curse.
She allowed him to look for a while, to soak her in, to take his fill, before she said, “What now?”
His gaze snapped to hers, ripped through her. His need, his hunger was a palpable thing. “Now me.” He held out his arms and she stepped closer.
In another world, in another universe, he would be a dangerous creature, a lion on the prowl, and she a gazelle. Or a knight of old, claiming his maiden. Or a pirate preparing to ravage a captive. Each and every fantasy spoke to her on a level so deep she could barely interpret it.
All she knew was she wanted to be his. She wanted to succumb.
She wanted him to take her. Wildly. Forcefully.
So, as she undressed him, as he so starkly commanded, she teased him.
It wasn’t difficult. A casual brush against a nipple as she unbuttoned his shirt. The swipe of her groin against his as she raised to her toes to pull it off. And then, oh my, it was difficult undoing his belt. Who knew a simple catch could be so confabulating? It took her quite some time.
It only made sense to drop to her knees so she could see it better. And then, when she unzipped his fatigues, she was there. Right there.
She leaned in and set her nose to the cotton of his briefs and drew in a deep breath.
God. He smelled magnificent. Like man and musk and…George.
At the thought, a trickle of annoyance rose up. Annoyance that he hadn’t given her his name. His real name.
So she huffed out a slow breath, bathing him with her damp—
“Stop that.” He lurched away and glared at her, though his glare held a tinge of panic.
“Stop what?”
It wasn’t lost on her that she knelt on her knees before him, this huge, tremendous warrior. That he was half-naked, nearly naked. And she was utterly so.
“Stop teasing me.”
She fluttered her lashes. “Was I teasing you?”
“You know you were.”
“I was undressing you, as you…commanded.”
He flinched at the word. His expression became fierce. Tormented. “Come here,” he barked. But he didn’t wait for her to comply. He grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet and towed her to the table.
He stalled then, glancing from the table to the chair, as though not sure what he wanted to do next. She was sure he knew what he wanted to do—at least she hoped she was right—but he couldn’t decide how he would do it.
A shudder of anticipation walked through her.
After a moment, he sat on the chair with a plop and pointed to his lap.
It seemed prudent to pretend ignorance. “What do you want me to do, George?”
He made that noise again—that one deep in his throat, something bestial and feral—and pointed to his lap again.
He seemed to be near the end of his tether, so she took the hint and draped herself over his thighs. She was annoyed that he was still wearing his fatigue pants, but they were unzipped. She could see the outline of his erection through the cotton of his briefs, see the pulse thrumming in it. She nudged her hip against it as she settled and—
Whack.
He didn’t wait. Didn’t prepare her. Gave her no warning. It was as though once he had her where he wanted her, he simply could hold off no longer and finally took what he’d been aching to take.
She flinched and yowled, but it was a yowl of delight.
The heat of it, his palm on her ass, the power of it, the delicious snarl of pleasurable pain, swamped her.
But mostly, his attention. His touch. His domination.
Another smack fell, and another. And another. Her ass heated, her ardor rose. It bubbled and churned and sizzled though her veins. She released her hold on logic. Released her hold on the need to control the world. She handed it all over to him and just felt. It was fan-fucking-tastic.
She knew there were tears in her eyes. She knew she was sobbing uncontrollably. She knew arousal was dribbling down her thighs and dampening his pants.
She knew the fever was upon her.
“Please,” she panted, when he stopped for a moment, to rest his hand, to caress her burning flesh. “Please fuck me.”
He stilled. Every muscle clenched. His cock surged. “Fuck you?” He drew his fingers along her slit, teasing, tantalizing, making her tremble.
“Yes. Please.” He dipped in and nudged her clit, that tight, swollen nub. Circled it. Sensation, splendor spiraled out. Pleasure took her.
But ah, that tiny crisis was nothing, nothing to the next, when he found her entrance and slammed his fingers in. He levered her ass higher and braced her with one hand while he jack-hammered in and out of her with the other. Wild, incessant, manic. He worked her and worked her and she came and came. He searched for and found a spot hidden deep, one where all her nerves conjoined, where the world began and ended, where she began and ended.
And he ended her.
And began her again.
It was magnificent. Splendid. Beyond any experience she’d ever known.
She lost herself in that endless moment. That juncture of time and space and everything. She lost herself utterly. And found herself again, in him.
When he slowed, gentled, brought her back to the world, she looked up at him with her eyes filled with tears, filled with submission, filled with gratitude.
He stroked her again. Tenderly. Then he pulled out and splayed his wet hand on her ass, cooling her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded. Sobbed. Sniffed.
“You did well.” She didn’t know why his praise thrilled her as it did. She couldn’t hold back her smile. He tried to hold his back, but had to fake a fierce frown to do so. And then he grumbled, “Now, stop calling me George.”
***
Benedict stared at her, her tear-streaked cheeks, the flush lighting her face, the glow in her eyes. He shook with hunger. Shook with it. A howling, scorching, wailing, blistering need.
He could barely contain himself, but he wanted, needed to make sure Michelle had weathered his brutality before he issued more. Before he loosed the leash and allowed his savage nature full rein.
And God. She had. She’d taken all he’d had to give, and reveled in it.
“Are you…” The words caught in his throat. He tenderly tucked a skein of her hair behind her delicate shell-like ear. “Are you ready for more?”
He loved that her lips quirked. Loved the delight and anticipation on her features. “Yes, Sir.”
Oh. Holy. Fucking. God.
She was perfect. Perfect. Exquisite. Divine.
He took her by the hair and yanked her up, standing in a rush. Then he bent her over the table and kicked her legs far apart.
Need scored him with sharp claws at the sight of her splayed. Her ass was red and bore the mark of his palm…in numerous places. The dampness between her legs glistened in the light of the fire.
Those dimples at the base of her spine winked at him.
God.
God.
He could have stared at her for hours. For days. But his body was hard and hungry, his lust a snapping, slavering hound. He intended to stroke her, tease her, bring her to the edge once more before he shoved in and drove home…but she glanced over her shoulder at him, her expression a moue of impatience. She waggled her ass. “What are you waiting for?” she asked in a taunting tone. And then, because she knew it would inflame him, she added, “George.”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
That one word, one thought, one blinding urge whipped through his mind.
He yanked down his pants and his skivvies in one jerk, fisted his cock and stepped behind her. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared. She pooched out her bottom, as though to meet him in this incursion.
Ah. God.
He set one hand to her hip to hold her still, and guided his cock to her entrance. Her heat, the slick kiss of her cream made his eyes cross. She was so ready, so hungry for it.
So was he.
He drove deep. Plowed into her in a savage thrust. She screamed, wailed, came. Her body rippled around him, clutched, flailed. She tossed back her hair and braced herself on the table, holding onto the sides with white-knuckle intensity.
The tight walls of her sheath clung to him, caressed him, sucked at his cock. It was magnificent. She was magnificent. He never wanted to leave this heaven, this hell.
But he had to. The urge to move and move madly was upon him. He gripped her hard then, with both hands. Sank his fingers into the flesh of her hips and pinioned her, held her still as he pulled out. Then he plunged again. And again. And again in a manic flurry of agony and bliss.
His tension rose to unbearable heights. He closed his eyes and worked her, reveling in the feel of her body gripping his with each withdrawal, the warm wet welcome with every lunge. Something coiled at the base of his being. His balls contracted, his world, his universe, his soul. Everything shrank down to that hard nugget of existence, to the place they joined, to the tumult they shared.
His thrusts became harder, harsher, wilder. He pummeled her with his passion, driving her higher, transforming her into a savage beast like him. Transforming her into his mate.
Sweat prickled on his brow as he worked her, holding back, torturing himself as he willed her to come and come again. He found a spot inside her that made her shudder and wail, that made her melt, and he targeted it, lancing it again and again in a relentless barrage.
When she collapsed on the table, when she quivered and panted and loosened her hold, he knew he had taken, given, all that he could. All but one thing.
He had one thing left to give.
He slowed, changing from a manic rhythm to slow, powerful, measured drives. She warbled a cry and whipped her head around, met his gaze. He held it. Held it captive as he held her. And then, he lifted a hand and let it fall.
The sound of flesh against flesh echoed through the cabin. She did not cry out—her voice was too broken and ragged—but she did come again. One more time, a slow ripple, a wave of rapture…for both of them.
Because that final clench did him in. Staring into her eyes, he came, succumbed, surrendered. Yielded all.
It rose up in him, a seething tide. His passion, certainly, but more as well. Something unnamable and unnamed. Something he had never known before. An emotion so powerful, so frightening, it nearly brought him to his knees.
As he stared into her beautiful eyes, he realized, she was not the captive here.
Not in the least.
But he was.
When it was over and done he took her in his arms and carried her to the bed and laid her down. Settling beside her, he kissed the tears from her cheeks and held her, caressed her, soothed her as she fought her way back to the world.
They didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Hell, he couldn’t have spoken if his life depended on it, he was too far gone. Drowned in it. Wallowing in it.
What they’d shared had been a tumult. A conflagration. A redemption.
And Michelle?
She saw him. She knew him. She took all he had to give, and more.
As a man who’d spent most of his life alone, solitary, a rock, he struggled to understand the emotions roiling in his soul.
On the one hand, there was a clawing hunger, a desire for more. The thrumming temptation to hold her close and never let her go. A riot of want.
On the other, there was a deep, welling peace, like nothing he’d ever known. A sense of rightness in his own skin. The sense of coming home—when he’d never even had a home.
Funny, how the conflicting feelings melded so perfectly.
It was a damn shame he was who he was. A dead man. A ghost. There was no place for her in his life and no place for him in hers.
It would be hell letting her go when the time came.
He feared it would be sooner than he could bear.
Michelle curled up against George, pillowing her head on his chest. His powerful arms surrounded her, making her feel safe, cosseted. Her body still hummed from the most mind-blowing orgasms she’d ever had, and her ass still burned, but it was a delicious, warm glow.
It was difficult wrapping her mind around the dynamics between them, because she’d never been what she considered a submissive woman—she was far too mouthy for that. And she probably still would not classify herself as a sub. But she’d known, at the core of her being, what he’d wanted and an answering call had risen from the well of her soul.
She was glad she had answered it.
She’d loved every second of his rough lovemaking. Reveled in it. And she loved this. She loved the way he held her, soothed her, stroked her. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it, it was that deeply ingrained in him.
She lifted her head to gaze at him and was struck once again by the beauty of his features. Hard and harsh, yet boyish, vulnerable somehow. She stroked his cheek where scars pocked his perfection. “What happened here?” she asked softly.
He captured her hand and kissed her fingers. “I don’t know.”
“You…don’t know?”
He shook his head. A shadow passed through his eyes. “Can’t remember a damn thing.”
“And this one?” She touched a scar on his shoulder.
“Same mission.”
“And this one?” On his arm.
“Yeah.”
“And this one?” She stroked a scar on his abdomen.
His lips turned up. “Appendix.”
“Oooh. Brave man.”
“I was six.”
She stilled as a vision of a six-year-old George—with no mother—alone in a hospital bed filled her mind. “Were you scared?”
“Terrified.” He chuckled at the memory. “And then, afterwards, I was pissed.”
“Why?”
“One of my foster brothers had his tonsils out a week before and he got ice cream.”
“They didn’t give you ice cream?”
“No.” A pout.
“Bastards.” She chuckled and lay back down, stroking him gently. His skin was warm and smooth. She splayed her palm on him and soaked him in.
“Michelle?” he said, after a while.
“Mmm?”
“Did you…? Are you…?”
She peeped at him. “Am I what?”
“Are you okay? I mean…” he waved toward the table where he’d shown her heaven.
She snorted a laugh. “I’m wonderful. That was…”
He stiffened. “What?”
“Amazing. Unbelievable. Perfect.” She leaned up and punctuated each word with a kiss.
“I wasn’t…too rough?”
“No.”
His hold on her tightened.
“There was one thing I didn’t like though.”
His eyes flared. His nostrils pinched and his lips worked. “I… What?”
“I wanted to call you by your name and I couldn’t. Because I don’t know it.”
“I told you it’s—”
“Nope. Not calling you that. And you told me not to call you George,” she added teasingly. “Although, you do look like a George.” She stroked his curls.
“I do not.”
“Anyway, I wanted a name.”
He stared at her for a long while as he fought some inner battle. Finally he blew out a sigh and looked away. “No one knows my real name. No one can.”
“Why not?”
His smile was sad. “I’m a ghost, remember?”
“What would you like me to call you?” She huffed a laugh. “Other than Sir.”
His chest shook as he chuckled and then his arms tightened. “You could…”
“Yes?”
“If you wanted to, you could call me…Ben.”
Ben.
Oh heavens. Ben.
Something warm and wonderful nested in her chest.
Because she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he’d just shared something with her. Something precious and real.
“Ben,” she said. “I like the taste of that.”
He threaded his fingers in her hair. Caressed her cheek with his thumb.
“Ben. Ben. Yes.” She nodded. “Much better than George.”
Much better than George, indeed.