“Shh,” Diaz said as he pulled her nightgown up to her waist and spread her legs. “Don’t think.”
“What—” she began, then inhaled sharply as he rubbed the head of his penis around her opening to moisten it, and pushed inside. Her nails dug into his biceps. She was moist, yes, but not ready; she felt every inch of him as he stretched her soft tissues and settled deep.
Don’t think? How could she not think? But her mind was so tired, so bruised from the long weeks of grieving, and with intense relief she felt herself sinking into purely physical sensation. She should tell him no, but she didn’t. When he kissed her, she tilted her head and kissed him in return. She needed this escape from herself, and he had known it.
She moved her hands to his shoulders and clutched them as he settled into a slow rhythm. Because she wasn’t already aroused, her body only gradually responded to his hands on her breasts, his kisses, the back and forth motion inside her. She felt tension grow in him as he fought the rise of his own climax; sweat gleamed on his hard shoulders and along his back, making her palms slippery, but he didn’t falter in the rhythm. There was just enough hallway light coming through her open bedroom door for her to see the glitter in his eyes as he watched her, waiting for and reading each tiny response in the quickening of her breath and heartbeat, the way her legs climbed to hug his hips. Her body began lifting to his to meet each slow thrust, and her arms slid around his neck.
She didn’t want this to end. She knew it had to, knew he couldn’t last forever, but as long as he was inside her the world was held at bay. What he was giving her, besides pleasure, was surcease. He had watched her for weeks, waiting, and tonight he had acted. She’d known he would, eventually. The only wonder was that he’d waited so long.
She felt both relaxed and protected with him, at least from outside forces. Nothing, it seemed, could protect her from him, and tonight she wasn’t even certain she wanted to be. Claimed, and mated. She was his, but was he hers? And if he was, what in hell did they do about it?
“I don’t even know what you want,” she said fretfully, beginning to lose herself in rising sensation.
“This,” he muttered in a dark, rough tone. “You. Everything.”
Her head tilted back, her spine arched, and she began climaxing. He cradled her close and kept up his slow rhythm until her unconscious cries had faded, her fingers had stopped digging into his back, and her legs loosened around his hips. Milla relaxed against the pillows, her eyes closing, her muscles limp and her body replete.
Diaz gently kissed her forehead, then withdrew and tucked the covers around her again, and left as quietly as he’d entered.
Milla lay there, drowsing and trying to decide what was different, for about a minute. She needed to get up and clean herself as she usually did after they made love, but she was so sleepy now and, really, she didn’t feel wet—
She came fully awake, aware of what had happened. Or rather, what hadn’t happened. He hadn’t come. He’d seen to her pleasure, then left without taking his own.
She was out of bed and moving before the thought finished. As soon as she entered the short hallway, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. She pushed open the door and saw him through the clear shower door. He stood with his head bowed and one arm braced against the shower wall in front of him, water beating down on him as he slowly worked his other fist up and down.
No. As she pulled her nightgown over her head and dropped it to the floor, everything in her rebelled at leaving him to this lonely release after he’d so unselfishly seen to hers. She jerked the shower door open and stepped in. “I believe that’s mine,” she said, reaching out to still his fist, then replacing it with her own.
Slowly he raised his head, and she was taken aback by the fierceness in his dark gaze. “Don’t do this unless you mean it,” he rasped.
She didn’t hesitate at the ultimatum. She shook her hair back out of her face as the warm water rained down on her head. His shaft was iron hard in her hand, and in her hand wasn’t where she wanted it. She didn’t let herself think; she just reached up and gripped the shower pipe and used it to lever herself up so she could wrap her legs around his hips. She wasn’t high enough, so she braced one arm on his shoulders and pushed herself higher, trying to maneuver so she could ease down on his thrusting erection.
With a growl he wrapped one arm around her hips and pulled her against him, dipping his head down to close his mouth over her left nipple. His penis pushed up between her legs; gasping, she adjusted her position just a little, then let herself begin to slide down, stretching, enveloping him in her wet heat. He released her nipple as she slowly dropped down, a rough sound catching in his throat.
Just as he’d done to her, she slowly moved up and down, caressing him with her body, drawing out his response. He ground his teeth together, fighting not to come when she was just as determined he would. Frustrated, she wondered why he was holding back—until she heard herself moan, and realized the friction was working on her, too.
The battle there in the shower was in close-combat conditions. With the clinging grip of her body she tried to wring a climax from him, locking her legs around him and pumping hard. He slowed her down with that one arm around her hips, grinding her against him and sending her response rocketing.
The warm water began to go, but the heat generated by their bodies was so intense she scarcely noticed. Diaz turned her so they were out of the spray, breaking her grip on the shower pipe and bracing her against the tile wall. Milla gripped his head with both hands, kissing him with all the fierceness she could muster; then she lost the battle and her head arched back as she began to climax. With an inhuman sound, as if he’d been pushed beyond his limits, he jerked convulsively and began pumping into her with short, hard thrusts that took him to the hilt and made her cry out.