Her mouth left his to make heat
trails over his face and down his
neck. Meanwhile her hands stoked
down over his chest under his shirt.
There was no hesitation, no
unsureness: he was hers for the
taking, and she knew it. He fell back
against the wall, to brace himself,
because she made him weak-kneed
and because he wanted everything
at once: he had to have her then
and there that instant, yet he didn't
want to move, to do anything to
interrupt the sensations coursing
through him. He had no names for
what he felt. He might be dying, for
all he knew. The pleasure was
beyond anything. Let it kill him.
She was welcome to kill him with
heat and pleasure or torture him. So
long as she wanted him, she could
take him any way she liked. He was
strong; he could bear whatever she
did to him, and happily, too. But he
wanted her, too, and he couldn't
wait forever.
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