He pushed her onto her back, nudged her folds apart with deft fingers, before descending to replace them with his tongue.
He licked a taste, breathed her in, let his appreciation growl out over her engorged flesh, sending her screeching and scratching. He groaned his pleasured pain. “This is for every time you wrote my name on your delectable flesh. I’ll torment you, like you tormented me every second of the past sixteen months.”
Ignoring her protests, he took the lips of her core in a voracious kiss, tonguing her, thrusting light then hard, sweeping short then long, suckling, layering sensation until she was buried. He brought her to the edge, snatched her away, never pushing her over, too many times to count, no doubt the number of times his name marked her body.
When her breath fractured, her pleas stifled, and she lay beneath him paralyzed with hyperstimulation, he talked into her, sending the shock of each vibration, each syllable throughout her system. “Next time it’s me who’ll write my name all over you. But right here…” He pinpointed the bud where all her nerves converged, took it in a sharp nip. “I’ll tattoo my name.”
The discharge of all the pent-up stimulation was so explosive, she heaved in detonation after detonation until she felt her spine might snap.
He had no mercy, pushed three fingers inside her, sharpening her pleasure, lapping up its flood until her voice broke. He didn’t stop even then, sucked every spasm and aftershock out of her, blasting her sensitized flesh with more growls. “And this is to get you ready for what you deserve for walking out on me.” Two fingers sawed inside her spasming channel while one beckoned at her internal trigger, his thumb echoing the action on its mirror image outside. She writhed under the renewed surge, the need for release a rising crest of incoherence. She thrust against his hand until his rumbled “Marrah Kaman”—one more time—hurled her convulsing and shrieking into another orgasm.
He came up to loom over her, watching her trembling with what he’d done to her, watching his hand tracing the patterns of his name on her buttock. Mute, saturated with pleasure, hungrier for him than ever, she watched him, the emotions on his face coming too fast and thick for her to register, to decipher. To withstand.
Melting with the barrage, with needing him to end his punishment, give her the punishing ride she was dying for, she wrenched her eyes away, down. He was jutting against his pantaloons, the crown of his shaft straining beyond the waistband, wide and thick and daunting, dark and glistening with craving, throbbing with control. The moment he freed her hands to strip off her armbands, she lunged to snatch his pants down.
He caught her hands. “Even now you stand by your claims that you need me inside you for the most intense climax?”
She bucked her hips at him, begging. “I’m still conscious am I not? Still hungry, hungrier…” She was stunned to find her voice hoarse not gone. “I crave everything you do to me, your every touch turns me inside out with pleasure, but when you’re inside me, it’s…it’s indescribable…”
Lava simmered in his gaze, the rest of him freezing. She made use of his stillness, skimmed stinging hands over the silk skin and hair-covered steel of his pecs, his abs, following the pattern with her lips and tongue while her hands delved beneath his waistband, closed on his engorgement.
He lay on his side, letting her worship him. He waited until she thought she’d fulfilled her hunger, was kissing the satin head, licking the precious flow of his arousal, let her get a full sample of his feel and taste and thickness as he thrust into the moist heat of her hunger, once, before he reared back, left her choking with chagrin and deprivation.
“This is my feast, Carmen. You are.” He snatched a pile of pillows, arranged them, dropped her back on top of them, had her arched, prostrated for his domination with an urgency bordering on violence, kneeled between her spread thighs, took her buttocks in his hands, his fingers digging shards of pain and frenzy into her. “And this is just to take the edge off…”
“Just do it…tear into me, tear me apart…please…”
He did. He rammed into her. All his power and the accumulation of frustration and hunger behind the thrust. The head of his erection, nearly too wide for her, mashed against all the right places, abrading nerves into an agony of response, pushing receptors over the limit of stimuli they could take, the gush of sensation they could transmit. He’d forged halfway inside her when she screamed, arched up in a deep bow, going into a paroxysm as the world flickered out, diffused, only his beloved face in focus, clenched in pleasure, his eyes vehement with his greed for hers.
And what she’d heard was true. Sex was better after her operation, her great loss. Blindingly, excruciatingly better. Orgasm raged through her, discharging in blow after blow of pleasure so sharp it was agony.
She raved, begged. “Can’t…can’t…please…you…you…”
He understood. Gave her what she needed. The sight of his face seizing, the feel of him succumbing to the ecstasy she gave him, the hard jets of his climax inside her. They hit her at her peak, had her thrashing, weeping, unable to endure the spike in pleasure. Everything blipped, faded…
Heavy breathing and slow heartbeats echoed from the end of a long tunnel as the scent of sex and satisfaction flooded her lungs. Awareness trickled back into her body, which was a mess of tremors, so sated it was numb. She felt one thing, though. Farooq. Still inside her, even harder, larger. She opened lids weighing half a ton each, saw him swim in and out of focus, still kneeling between her legs, her hips on his thighs, one palm kneading her breasts, the other gliding over her shoulders, her arms, her belly.
“So it does take orgasming around me to knock you out.”
“Told you so…” Her head flopped to the side, her heart following at the sight they made, the image of erotic abandon, half out of their wedding fineries, his ruined, their hair tousled, her face shell-shocked, his taut, savage, her position the image of wantonness, her arms thrown over her head, arched back over the pillows he’d piled beneath her, her hips jutting, her legs opened over his hips, his shaft half-buried inside her, stretching her glistening entrance, her lips wrapped around him in the most intimate kiss. And he was watching her watch them.
He gave her more to watch, thrust two more inches inside her.
“You were right…” she slurred at his deepening occupation, her tongue feeling anesthetized, swollen in her mouth. “This…is the edge of…survival. My heart…almost burst. I don’t know if this—” a lethargic finger indicated her twisting tongue “—is from a stroke…or if the paralysis…will wear off. If this was just…to take the edge off the hunger…the main course might well be fatal.”