Chapter Seventeen

Izzy watched something like relief cross Trace’s face. What had he feared she wanted? A commitment? A pledge of undying love?

Not fair, her mind and her pussy insisted. The man just very generously gave you more attention, more foreplay, and more tongue-whipping orgasms than any of the men who’ve offered you a relationship, a commitment, or a pledge of any sort. His dick—bear daddy or otherwise—has got to be hurting by now. He definitely wants you to ask for it.

“It’s yours. All yours. Any way you want it.”

She adored the sound of that. She also adored how quickly Trace sat back on his haunches, reached an arm behind his shoulder, and yanked his sweater over his head. The white, long-sleeved thermal shirt he wore beneath concealed not an inch of his mountain range of shoulders, bulging biceps and thick forearms. But they were moving in the right direction in terms of wardrobe equality. She swept her legs to the side and got to her knees. He still towered over her, was still one hundred percent clothed to her zero percent, but somehow, she felt more powerful.

“I want it in my mouth, first,” she replied, and reached for the fly of his jeans.

He pulled the undershirt off, and she got a little distracted by the fan of hair across his chest and the trail that arrowed down, down, down…into the shadowy little gape at the waist of his jeans.

“Izzy, I can give you maybe five seconds to treat my dick like your very own candy stick, and then I have to be inside you, or this culminates in a blow job, or a hand job, or something in between. The choice is yours, but as long as we’re breaking rules, I would really, really love to give you a last orgasm while you’re riding my cock.”

Her whole body shivered. She wanted that. So badly. Wanted an end to the empty need inside her. Leaning into him, she spread her palms over his chest, angled her head back and lowered her eyelids so she watched him from beneath her lashes. “Could I”—she licked her lips, just to be evil—“kiss it”—tongue to one corner of her lips, then the other—“first?”

His hands got clumsy unbuttoning his jeans. He finally just gripped one side of his fly and tore it open. A thick, ruddy, veined cock slung out, bobbed around as if disoriented by the sudden freedom, and then jutted skyward. “Kiss me first.”

Her lungs hollowed. So awe-inspiring, like a redwood. So perfectly proportioned, like a carved monument. She reached out a hand. “It’s so…”

“It’s big,” he finished for her and wrapped his massive fist around himself. Even so, that left a good several inches unattended. She wanted to attend to them. All of them. But then he repeated, “Kiss me first.”

She leaned closer, hands splayed on his chest, and raised her lips to his. “I promise to be gentle,” she teased.

“Me too,” he answered, a millisecond before their mouths came together in a rough, urgent duel. Her lips stung and burned a little from whisker-abrasion when they finally broke apart. Licking them produced addictive sensations. “Okay, I was kidding,” she breathed, and curved her hand around the one he had wrapped around his dick. “I don’t want gentle. I don’t want careful.”

“Careful would be best.” He swapped their hands around so hers gripped his shaft. They both watched as he coaxed her up and down his length in long, slow strokes.

Her mouth watered. Her insides clenched with new desperation. “Naked.” She tugged at his jeans with her free hand. “You. Naked. Now.” Maybe the prospect of tackling his cock made her bossy, but he didn’t seem to object. He sat back on the bed and dragged everything off. Jeans, socks—everything—then lay back in all his glory.

And he was glorious. His relaxed smile said he knew it, but she couldn’t fault him for understanding such a simple fact. His body radiated power, latent right now in the braided strength of his thighs and biceps, the horizontal slats of his abs, and the massive expanse of his chest, but this, she knew, was no gym-polished assemblage of muscles maintained by miles of cardio, reps in front of a mirror, and low-carb lunches. Unlike the men in her experience, his body had been built by the demands of his life, not in spite of them. Now all that latent strength was at her disposal, she wanted to revel in it, and she hardly knew where to start. Every part of him called to her. One part especially, yes, but like a kid at an amusement park, she didn’t want to miss out on anything.

Jittery with anticipation, she crawled over to him and knelt between his parted thighs. With a shaky breath she leaned forward and ran her hands from his shoulders to his hips in a long sweep. “How did I resist all this for so long?”

“I don’t know, but I’m damn glad you’ve finally decided to have your way with me.”

She leaned forward again, propping her hands on either side of his torso, and dropped a kiss along the sexy channel bisecting his abs. “Oh, I have.” To prove it, she scooted down and kissed the taut, raised muscle at the front of his thigh. It jumped under her lips, making her smile. A big hand curved along the back of her head. Long fingers threaded into her hair. “Izzy…”

She kissed the other thigh and let the trailing tendrils of her hair slide over his cock. The fingers at her scalp tightened a fraction, then released and swept her hair into a long tail that trailed through his fist and down her back. “That feels amazing. Too amazing. I don’t want to make a mess of your hair.”

He didn’t want to make a mess of her hair? The notion sent a muscle-weakening heat through her. What would that be like? Him making a mess of her hair, her face and breasts? Well, messy, for sure, but something inside her liked the idea of him making a mess of her. It seemed primitive and earthy—like camping, she imagined—and far, far from a clean, precise six minutes with her mini wand of medical grade silicon.

The hand holding her hair gave a gentle tug, and she raised her head. Stern eyes locked on hers. “I hear you thinking, Izzy. Not this time. Another time I’ll let you make me come where I stand, and you can take it however you choose, but not our first time.”

“No,” she agreed, and felt her cheeks heat as she added, “not our first time.” But she would have a preview. Wrapping her hand around the base of his cock, she smoothed her lips along the shaft, over the crown. She kissed him there, smiling when he cursed. Opening her mouth, she let her breath fan him, delighted when he throbbed in her hand and cursed again. With the very tip of her tongue, she traced the flare. Two hands held her hair now. “Izzy, baby, do it. Please.”

She did it. Took him in slowly, by degrees, and cradled him there, hoping he’d make use of her mouth. He didn’t move. Confounded, she sealed her lips tight and retreated a bit, hugging him as tightly as possible with as much of her mouth as she could manage. She bobbed at the crown and repeated. All around her muscles twitched—his hands, his thighs, even his breath came in erratic pants—but he didn’t move. Not the slightest thrust. Balanced on her knees, one hand splayed over his thigh, she snuck the other down and cupped his balls.

“Ah, Jesus.” The hands in her hair tightened, held her head down for one breathless moment while his hips surged upward—once, twice, a third time, long and deep enough to bring tears to her eyes and a choked noise to the back of her throat. Before she could truly savor the thrill of driving him beyond control, he withdrew, gasping, and lay back on the bed. “What do you think, Izzy? You ready to let me really scratch that itch of yours?” He held his cock out, so it stood straight up. “No matter how tricky it is, or how hard to reach, I’ve got the right tool for the job. I promise.”

As if her body replied on her behalf, her insides clenched hard—startlingly hard—and the ache inside her intensified to something unbearable. “Yes. God, yes.” She scrambled to straddle him, but he clasped her hips and guided her to the side.

“Sit tight.” Rolling, reaching, treating her to the sight of his long, naked body in action, he opened a nightstand drawer and pulled out a condom. The square looked small in his hands, the contents certainly too one-size-fits-all for his one-of-a-kind cock, but within seconds he proved it fit perfectly. As if it had been tailor-made for him. Would their fit be as perfect?

This time when she started to straddle his lap, he helped her into position. She stayed high on her knees, felt the heat of him, then the smooth blunt head brush her folds. Should she go straight down? Lean forward and kind of back up on him? This might be easier if he’d just roll her under him and fuck her.

You’re taking too long. Say something sexy.

Staring into his eyes, she whispered, “It’s been over a year since I’ve done this.”

He squeezed her butt encouragingly. “It’s like riding a bike.”

A cringeworthy memory snuck into her mind. “The last time I rode a bike it was too big for me. I lost control, crashed into my date, and sprained his thumb.”

His laugh shook his whole body, jostled his dick between her legs like a giant tease. “Izzy, I swear nothing you’re about to ride is too big for you, nobody’s going to crash, and nothing’s going to get sprained. Take it as slow as you want. Take as much as you want. It’s all up to you.”

She wished she shared his confidence. What if after all this buildup, she couldn’t come. What if he couldn’t? She was sinking too deep into her own head, and she knew it. What if the whole thing was a fail because of her? She might burst into bitter tears right there in his bed. Men loved that, didn’t they? Stalling, she looked left, then right, then back at him. “Got any training wheels around here?”

His lips quirked, but then he furrowed his brows and leveled a scowl on her. “Isabelle.”

“What?”

“Get on my dick. Now. Before I flip you over and stick my tongue in your—”

“I’m getting on! Right now. Just…” She swallowed the little bubble of hysteria rising in her throat. “Give me a second to figure out.” Lean forward, she decided. It seemed roomier that way, and then sort of back him in.

The drawback to that approach, she soon discovered, was not having a visual on him. Backing up with no rearview mirror, basically, which left plenty of room for error. Luckily, Trace got gist of what she was trying to do, reached down and angled himself right where he needed to be, and… “Oh sweet Jeeeeeez…” Penetration. Not a lot, yet, but actual penetration with an actual living, breathing, breathtakingly male man. Her eyes wanted to close at the perfection of the moment, but she forced them open because she wanted to see him. Wanted to see if he enjoyed first contact as much as she did.

That was disconcertingly hard to judge, she discovered. What should she make of all his gorgeous muscles strained to the breaking point, his shadowed jaw tightly locked, and twin beams of blue lasering into her from beneath dark brows?

“Oh my God. Trace, are you okay?”

The question garnered her a pained smile. “I’m dying, but in a good way. I don’t want to rush things, and I’m not going to move ’til you’re ready, but… Baby, can you take a little more?”

Mercy, this man. That he would bank all that strength, hold his urges in check just to ensure her comfort melted that cold ball of insecurity inside her. Finding her own smile, she slowly pushed herself into an upright position, which automatically lodged him deeper. Her body stretched. His thickened. Their moans merged.

“Christ, that’s good.” His words were little more than a growl.

Her inner muscles quivered. Her neck muscles gave out. She tipped her head down and looked at him. “It is so good. I don’t want to rush things either, but I think…I have to move now.” Her hips had a mind of their own. They jerked forward, and… No, no! He nearly slipped out.

“Hold on. Wait.” He captured her hips in his hands again. “Okay, baby. Let’s get you in the saddle.” Before she could form the question in her mind, he sat up in an ab-crunching display of strength and backstopped her with his thighs. Her knees still supported her, and allowed her to control the pace, the depth of penetration. His consideration brought tears to her eyes.

“Okay?” His gaze roamed over her face.

She nodded. “I think I’m going to cry.”

He leaned in and kissed her. “Don’t cry.”

“I’ll try not to.” Experimentally, she rocked her hips, and little lights exploded behind her eyes. Addicted, she continued to move. “I’ve never felt this. It’s never been this…intense.”

Warm hands smoothed up her sides, encouraging. “I know. I know. I’m right there, too.”

Work-toughened palms found her breasts. Cupped them. Squeezed them. She tried to say please and thank you, and more, more, more, but maybe the words never left her lips because he asked, “Do you like it, Izzy? Do you like when I hold your beautiful tits? Keep them from bouncing too hard?” He swept his hands along the undersides. “Do you need a gentle touch, or do you like when I do this?” He caught her nipple between his thumb and index finger and plucked the stiff peak.

Words tumbled from her tongue then, so quickly she could barely keep track of them. She gripped his shoulders, trying to convey meaning with her touch—the feel of his hands on her breasts, the feel of his cock inside her, the sweet agony of this journey she was making, this destination she raced toward. If felt tantalizingly close. It felt exhaustingly far off. She wanted to make sure he was coming along for the ride, but she kept losing track of everything except the frenzy of sensation unspooling inside her.

Lips moved over her throat, her jaw. Whiskers teased her sweaty skin. “Too much? Not enough? Talk to me, Izzy.”

Dear lord, she couldn’t find her voice except to moan. Who could blame her? When Trace Shanahan kissed a woman, she felt kissed. When he held a woman, she felt held. And when he fucked a woman, she felt everything. “I love it,” she said in a gasp. “I love it. Please…don’t stop.”

“Never,” he assured her, and she felt the telltale burn in her eyes a moment before the first tear leaked down her cheek.

Her hands, the same ones that seconds ago had been locked on his shoulders, suddenly couldn’t stay still. She swept them up his neck, buried her fingers in his hair, clung there for long minutes as she strived ever closer to a shining ball of heat and light. Toward an orgasm so powerful it would be like falling into the sun. Suddenly desperate to anchor herself to something before reaching the point of no return, she ran her hands along his arms, to where his hands still stroked her breasts, and clamped hers over his. “I’m flying,” she cried. From very far away, Trace ground out, “I’ve got you.” And he did. He squeezed her breasts, held them tight while her heart battered its way toward his touch. She bucked and shuddered and sobbed her way into a soul-wrecking climax.

The world spun. Even behind her tightly closed eyes she sensed an added layer of disorientation, and then she landed on all fours, dazed and momentarily bereft. A desperate cry rose in her throat, but strong hands clasped her hips, tilted them upward, and then that cock—that huge, majestic, absolutely crucial cock—pushed inside her again. Sent her flying to a whole new destination. Higher, further, wilder. Sweat burned her eyes now, blended with the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her pulse pounded in her ears while her body struggled to endure each rapid-fire thrust. From behind her, a low voice groaned, “Jesus… Jesus… Jesus, Izzy, keep coming for me. Come with me, baby. Come…”

She wanted to answer. Wanted to cry, “I-am-coming-so-hard!” But she had no idea what she said, or even if it was true. She was in the throes of something too overwhelming to fit tidily into the definition of an orgasm. Something more akin to a tsunami of sensations that stripped her bare, inside and out, possibly taking important pieces of her away forever, and she didn’t care at all because it…was…magnificent.

Even tidal waves recede, eventually, but this one left her loose and floaty—two adjectives that rarely applied to her. Warm lips cruised over her shoulder. Warm arms gathered her into a veritable furnace of a chest. The pad of a thumb swept her damp cheek.

“You said you wouldn’t cry,” a deep voice accused.

She smiled but didn’t open her eyes. “I said I’d try not to.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Now she did open her eyes and stumbled headfirst into blue pools of concern. “No. Not at all.” With a fingertip, she smoothed the 11 from between his brows. “I’ve never felt so amazing.”

He let out a relieved breath. “That, Isabelle, makes two of us. So, why are you crying?”

“Because I don’t need training wheels.”