And virgin. He couldn’t believe it. He was stunned that this incredibly passionate, beautiful, smart woman had never lain with another man. He’d never have guessed it. He’d thought her an experienced woman.
But not Jessica. She’d come to him untouched by any other. And though it wouldn’t have mattered to him how she’d come, the fact that he was her first man, that he was the only one she’d chosen to accept, with the countless men who had undoubtedly tried to get where he was right now, filled him with an intense possessiveness, gave him a primal, masculine thrill.
The need to spill his seed in her had been riding him merciless as a Harpy since he’d pumped that first inch inside. He’d damn near exploded when he’d pushed through her maidenhead.
He stared down at her, bent over the desk, her delicate spine arched, the paler skin of her full breasts crushed to the desk, the generous plump mounds spilling out the sides, her small, dainty hands stretched above her head, fingers clutching the wood, her lush, sweet ass thrusting up to meet him, he watched himself pump into her. It was the most exquisite, sensual sight he’d ever seen.
He thought of his prison, to maintain control. He needed her to find her pleasure before he took his.
Gritting his teeth, he began mentally reciting the parameters of his hell. Fifty-two thousand, nine hundred and eighty-seven stones.
He wanted to give her so much pleasure that each time she looked at him, her body would remember what he could make her feel, and begin hungering for it. Twenty-seven thousand two hundred and sixteen of them paler gray than the rest.
He wanted to be her every sexual fantasy, as well as her man and her rock and her best friend. Thirty-six thousand and four more rectangular than square.
He slipped one hand in front of her, between her woman’s mound and the desk, found her silken nub with his thumb and began playing it, rolling his pad over it, lightly, gently. Nine hundred and eighteen stones have a vaguely hexagonal shape. Then faster and more firmly. Then backing off again, lightly, gently, rubbing slow circles all around her clitoris, without actually grazing it.
“Oooh—Cian, that feels so good!”
He eased out of her slowly, thrust back in powerfully. Teasing her nub with alternately slow and gentle, then frantic friction, he slid two fingers over her slick, swollen mound, pushing between her lips, to feel where they joined, where the thick, rock-hard shaft of his cock was entering her. Where they became one. Ninety-two stones have a vein of bronze running through the face. Three are cracked.
Jessi writhed deliriously beneath Cian’s sensual assault. One of his big hands was on her behind, firmly cupping a cheek, holding her still; the other was between her legs from the front, delicately, expertly working her clit, backing off until she was ready to scream, resuming again just when and how she needed it. She gripped the edge of the desk, quivering uncontrollably, as if being shocked by little sizzling erotic pulses.
Her orgasm ripped through her so suddenly and intensely that she cried out, a long, wild half-sob, half-scream. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and lay whimpering helplessly beneath him, shuddering with wave after wave of pleasure, taking all he was giving her, convulsing as he milked every last ripple of climax from her with his pounding, with his clever, relentless hand.
Her hot, sleek warmth quivering around him was too much! He couldn’t hold it and stopped trying. Dropping forward, Cian covered her, gathering her back against his hard, muscled chest, and growled close to her ear, “You’re mine, Jessica. Do you ken that? Mine.” He gave her two more powerful pumps of his cock and exploded in hot intense spurts inside her.
The inexplicable feeling of the rightness of him coming inside her, coupled with the pad of his thumb deliciously abrading her orgasm-sensitive clit and his possessive words, kicked Jessi right back into another orgasm. You’re mine, too, Highlander was her last fierce thought, before they slipped down to the floor and dozed for a time beneath the desk in a sated, entwined stupor.
Cian sat on the floor near the fire, leaning his shoulders back against an ottoman, watching Jessica, entranced.
She was sitting cross-legged on a plush lambskin rug before the briskly crackling fire he’d just topped with sheaves of fragrant heather. Her jade eyes were sparkling, her short dark curls were softly tousled, and she had a velvet crimson throw tucked about her hips. She was talking animatedly, gesturing with her hands. And he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, he couldn’t hear a bloody damned word.
She was naked from the waist up and her pretty, high, round breasts quivered and bobbled with each gesture, her rosy nipples gently swayed.