Natalie tore her lips back from him, the teasing little tastes driving her insane. Her hands locked in the front of his shirt, and she ripped. Buttons scattered as a snarl left his lips, savage, animalistic, but his chest was finally bare. Sun-bronzed, hard, and tough, and free of hair except the nearly invisible, incredibly fine pelt that covered him.
“Oh, God.” This was better than chest hair. Perspiration gleamed on it now, making the soft hairs easier to see, and Natalie realized nothing could be more sensual. The thought of it rubbing against her sensitive ni**les made her pu**y clench, her juices spilling between the swollen folds between her thighs. She had to taste him. As he carried her through the kitchen to the short hallway and the stairs, she licked his chest. His muscles jumped beneath the caress, his arms tightening as he stumbled against the wall. The taste was there, and she lapped at it, kissing and licking her way to the flat, hard disc of his male nipple. Her teeth raked it, nipped at it. Natalie wondered vaguely if she had needed the hormone to become addicted to him, to hunger, to ache for his touch until she thought she’d die without it. Saban could be addictive on his own, she decided.
“Yes. Sweet mercy, cher .” He pressed her against the wall, his head falling back as she tongued the hard disc, licking at the stormy taste of perspiration, the heat and hardness of tough male flesh.
“You taste like your kiss,” she whimpered, licking over his chest again, little small laps that tasted his flesh and fired her blood. “Kiss me, Saban. I need your taste.”
The growl that came from his lips should have been frightening; it should have caused at least an edge of wariness to cool the lust burning inside her. Instead, it tightened her stomach, caused wet heat to spill from her vagina again. And when his lips covered hers, his tongue pushing inside, there was no room for wariness or for thought, only for hunger, only the desperate need inside her to replace the shadows in his eyes with light.
That thought pierced her as she felt him stumble up the stairs. She had seen those shadows when she first met him, wondered at them, ached for them.
She stroked her hands over his bare shoulders as her head bent, her lips suckling at the storm-ridden
taste of his kiss. She loved storms. The smack of thunder, the flare of lightning, and it was all there in his kiss, in the desperate hunger she knew no other man had felt for her.
“Not gonna make it to the bed,” he groaned, tearing his lips from hers to pull at her shirt. “Take it off.”
She took it off and flung it behind them as he shed the scraps of his shirt and went to his knee on one step.
Natalie’s eyes widened as she straddled his thigh, the heated muscle pressing into her pu**y, the force of her weight against him applying a teasing pressure against her clit. And when he moved her—oh Lord, his hands rocked her on his thigh, stroking her clit as his lips covered an inflamed nipple.
“Yes!” She hissed the word, her head falling back as she rode him in slow, undulating movements. The rasp against her clit was exquisite, if she could just get the right pressure, the right position. It was shockingly ecstatic, poised on the pinnacle of orgasm, certain when it came, it would take the top of her head off.
“Not like this.” Hard hands gripped her hips. “Inside you. I’ll be inside you when you come for me, cher
. I’ll be damned if you’ll go without me.”
FIVE
H e had to make it to the bed. God, he couldn’t take her here on the stairs. He had promised himself, the first time, when he completed his claim on her he would do so in the bed he had made for her. The one he’d made certain was in place before she came to this house. The king-size bed made of heavy cypress posts, carved and detailed, made especially for the woman who would one day hold his soul.
He dreamed of claiming her there. Not here, not on stairs where she couldn’t possibly know the comfort of soft sheets and the finest mattress he could provide.
Growling, his lips still holding the tight, sweetly succulent flesh of her nipple captive, he forced himself to his feet then nearly lost all strength he possessed as her legs wrapped around his hips and the heat of her pu**y seeped through his jeans to his cock.
He locked his hands on her ass, and he forced himself down the short hall to her bedroom. He pushed his way through the doorway, slammed the door closed, and barely remembered to lock it before he stumbled across the room to the bed.
He felt the power of it the minute he collapsed to the mattress with her. The comfort, the peace. Entwined with the prayers of the swamp rat that had saved him, carved into lightning-struck cypress were ancient symbols of protection and peace. It was a work of art by an artist the world had never known as he taught the craft to the strange boy he had rescued from the hurricane-ravaged bayou. It was the bed Saban had dreamed of building at an age when most boys were still tied to their mother’s apron strings. The bed where he knew he would one day create his family.
“Here,” he sighed, lifting from her, giving her nipple one last lick before levering himself from the curvy sweetness of her supple body.
He pulled her legs from around his waist, gripped the band of her capris, and pulled them quickly down her legs. Disposing of her strappy little sandals was easy, as was removing the silk of her damp panties. And then he paused, held himself still, and stared down at the perfection of the woman who was his mate.
Her br**sts that filled his hands perfectly, the flare of her hips, the gentle weight of her thighs, the smooth, curl-less folds of her sex. Her pu**y was bare, silken, and beautiful. But how much more beautiful, he thought, if he could convince her to allow those soft curls to return?
All the sweetness in the world was held there, and he was a man who thrived on his sweets. His head lowered, his tongue distending, and he swiped through the soft cream, a rough growl leaving his throat as he found the swollen little nub of her clit and her soft, needy cry filled the air. Sugar and cream, that was her taste, and he could become drunk on her. He licked through the slick juices, nectar, the wine of the gods, it had to be. His lips opened, and he kissed the delicate folds of flesh, licked at the taste of her, devouring the passion that flowed from her. And she loved it. He could feel the pleasure twisting, climbing through her body as she writhed beneath him. He had to clamp his hands on her hips to hold her still, but she lifted herself to him. Her knees bent, her feet pressed into the mattress as he knelt beside the bed. Her hips angled, and his tongue found paradise. Rich, heady, living passion flowed to him as he heard her cries sinking into his head.