If he’d learned anything, it had been that reality never lived up to a memory, or even worse, a fantasy. But that long-held belief shattered as he held himself inside of his wife. Her body only sheathed a part of him, but her warmth suffused him, surrounded him, until he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that once he lost himself inside her, he’d lose himself to her, as well.
She let a soft sigh of relief through her nose and her lashes fluttered as her hips flexed, testing the feel of him inside her.
A hot ripple of lust tore through him, followed by a tidal wave of pleasure. Instinct won over intellect, and Dorian lifted his hips, only to sink again, and again.
Ecstasy crawled over the pleasure, clawing at his flesh, ripping him apart, draining the very essence from him, and bathing her womb with it. Rendering him an empty vessel, a dark void of bliss and hunger, sated but not satisfied. He was a powerful man swimming against a riptide, realizing too late that he battled a force of nature stronger than himself.
And he was lost.
Farah felt him swell inside of her, stretching her already taut flesh. It only took a handful of movements for him to find release. He ducked his head against her neck, silent, not breathing for longer than she thought possible as each shudder racked his powerful body in unrelenting waves. He held his weight on one hand, as he had all night, his wounded palm still fixed over her mouth, the pulses echoed in the clench of his fingers.
When the storm subsided, he released his captive breath on a gasp against her hair. She hadn’t known what to expect after he’d found his pleasure, but what he did was absolutely not it.
Blackwell didn’t pause, or even abate. He maintained a slow, rippling rhythm, his manhood just as hard and unyielding as that first thrust. His gasps became pants that melted into groans.
He lifted his torso to look down at her, disbelief a foreign expression for his sharp, unsettling features. The fine wool of his jacket abraded her sensitized nipples. The leather of his glove, a buttery-smooth reminder of his fortunes, trailed from her mouth to her jaw, her throat, and her breasts. His seed further eased his way as he slid into her untried body with long, deep strokes.
Farah had thought her part over, that he’d coaxed from her body all the pleasure it had to give. But, to her ultimate surprise, a tight, aching heat bloomed low in her belly, starting in her womb and reaching for the shaft of branding heat plunging and retracting from inside her.
Her lips parted of their own accord, and a small sound of delighted surprise escaped.
Blackwell’s eyes sharpened. Questioned.
Farah’s body answered without thought. A lift of her hips, a press of her thighs, and a soft moan of encouragement.
It was all he needed.
Blackwell didn’t kiss or taste her. Instead he watched her face with an intensity that abashed her. Every flutter of her eyelid, or intake of breath, the way her lips parted or pressed together. His body again became a conduit of her gratification.
It shocked her how he could support his heavy frame all this time on one powerful arm, but the thought dissipated as he used his other hand to explore her, rendering her mind useless and directing her awareness like a symphony conductor. He traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones, as though committing her to memory, or visiting one, she couldn’t be sure.
As the slow pressure mounted, her moans became mewls, her mewls became cries. His finger drifted along the outline of her lips, slipping past her teeth and leaving the taste of sex on her tongue. Sex and leather. She closed her lips and rolled the glove between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, feeling the hard ridge of his finger beneath.
He hissed, growled, and pulled his hand away, drawing it down to her hip and gripping the curve of her ass, spreading her wider for his accelerating thrusts.
Farah’s head tossed against her pillow, her eyes rolling back into their sockets, retreating from sight, as her other overwhelmed senses demanded her attention.
Leather and sex. Darkness. Spice. Chilly air. Hot Blood. Textiles. Smooth, slick flesh. Wide, hard male.
A mouth on hers. A tongue thrusting inside, tasting the essence of her he’d left there, lapping at it.
Farah could feel the waves of sensation pressing against her spine. She feared it, like the first stirrings of an earthquake, or the silent breath after a lightning strike.
She waited for the answering thunder which was certain to resonate through her bones. Straining against her bindings with weak and trembling muscles, she wasn’t sure she could survive another earth-shattering release.
But there was no escape. It rushed over her helpless body like a rogue wave, drowning her in crash after crash of sensation. Blackwell swallowed her frantic cries until abruptly, he ripped his mouth from hers and reared back, letting loose a deep, hoarse roar, and then another. Calling his second release to the sky like a prisoner set free.
A languorous satiation turned her bones to liquid. Farah would have wondered if she were still connected to her body if not for the ties still binding her wrists to the headboard, or the small, errant twitches of exhaustion pulsing in her limbs.
Dorian Blackwell, her husband, lingered over her as they both fought to regain their breath. Peering up into his mismatched eyes, she shared an unspoken moment of awe with him.
Something in their world had shifted. Some sort of cosmological knowledge, or a secret thought lost at sea floating to the surface. In this quiet, unfettered moment, she knew him, truly saw him for what he was. Hard, ruthless tyrant. Abused, wounded boy. An empty heart full of promise, and a soul of shadows in need of sunlight.