“Patience,” he murmured even as she felt him fit his cock against her entrance.
In response, she lifted her hips, trying to push him deeper into her. “I’m not a very patient person.”
“No, you’re not,” he breathed, and then he kissed her again. As he did, she felt him thrust lightly, pushing into her.
Happy stars exploded behind her eyes. She gasped and clung to him harder. “More!”
In response to her impatient demand, he thrust hard.
Perfect. She cried out and when he leaned in, she bit down on his neck as he pounded into her. He hissed something under his breath that might have been in French, and continued to thrust into her. Her cries became shrieks, and she might have been clawing at his back—and not really caring—because he fit into her perfectly. There was something about him that hit her in all the right spots, and with every thrust, it felt like he was hitting her G-spot and her clit all at once. Which sounded crazy, except for the fact that she was pretty sure she was about to explode like a rocket. She’d never had a penetration-only orgasm before, and right now? It seemed to be on the table.
So she grabbed his hips and bucked when he thrust. “Harder!”
“Damn, woman,” he panted, but he did as she commanded. Soon, her bed was rocking so hard that she was pretty sure the neighbors were going to complain—not that she cared. That wonderful, clench-y, spiraling feeling was building in her belly, all through the magical friction of his cock inside her.
“You’re killing me,” she cried out, even as she clung to him harder.
“You want me to stop?” He paused in his endless thrusting.
“God, no!” She hammered a fist onto one of those magnificent arms. “Good killing! Good killing!”
His laugh was smothered by another moan, and then she cried out as he angled her hips slightly differently, and then thrust again. That did the trick. She screamed his name, holding on to him for dear life as she came, her entire body clenching around him. She was pretty sure that somewhere beyond all the blood roaring in her head and the chorus of angels screaming in her ears, he was coming, too. His body shuddered against hers, and then he collapsed on top of her.
Taylor stared up at her ceiling, dazed. “That was . . . Wow.”
On top of her, Loch groaned. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“Fuck. Don’t be sorry.” He chuckled and sat up, panting. “I think you wrecked me.”
And all she could do was grin, because she felt the exact same way. Wrecked was a good word to describe it. Utterly sated, too. Content? Pleased as punch? All of those worked.
He rolled off of her a moment later and got up from the bed to dispose of the condom. She sat up, too, sweaty and, well, dirty in all the right ways. A shower would be good. Shower and then a bowl of celebratory cereal.
Because really? That orgasm was definitely something to celebrate.
Chapter Six
Loch woke up early the next morning, sleeping in the most uncomfortable, narrow bed he’d ever been in, with a woman sprawled against his side, and his muscles sore.
He’d had a fucking terrific night. With a yawn, he crawled out of bed and padded to the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. A quick look in Taylor’s tiny bathroom mirror showed him the damage done. His neck was covered up one side and down the other with hickies, there was a bite mark on one shoulder, and if he turned, his back was covered in her enthusiastic scratches.
The woman was a fiend in bed.
He’d loved it.
Everything about Taylor was unexpected, from the way she dressed to her uninhibited actions. Most women he’d dated or slept with had always had an angle—sometimes it felt a bit like performance art, the way they acted in bed. But Taylor had been bossy and demanding and completely at ease with that. And to his surprise, it had been sexy to have a woman bang her small fist on his arm and tell him to move faster or to change his angle. He grinned at his reflection, admiring the scratches on his back. Already, he was enjoying his time in the States. His expectations had been low, but so far they’d been pleasantly exceeded.
He really liked Taylor. Her apartment, however . . . He had closets bigger than it at home. Of course, thinking about home made him wonder if he needed to call anyone. All his life, he’d had servants to check in with, a valet who picked out all his clothing, and drivers to take him around. Now he was here in the States and he had . . . none of those.
He actually wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.
His stomach rumbled, and Loch put a hand there, frowning. He was hungry . . . but there were no servants. Even at the hotel he went to the restaurant and people brought him food. He’d never had to take care of himself in his life. He’d figure that out shortly, though. Shower first, then food.
Taylor’s tiny shower ran out of hot water long before he was done, and he rinsed off, swearing a blue streak as he dug through her cabinet, dripping wet, for a towel. He found a threadbare Star Wars towel and wrapped it around his hips, then emerged from the bathroom to see Taylor still passed out in the bed, her mouth slightly open as she slept, sprawled and utterly without a care.
It was cute, really. He wanted to let her sleep, but his stomach was growling fiercely, so he went over to the bed and gently touched her ankle.
She jerked upright in bed, her messy hair flying. “Hm? What?”
He watched as her full breasts jiggled enticingly under the blanket she hugged to her torso. She was definitely appealing, no doubt about that. “Can you make me breakfast?”