Chapter 194

Chapter 194
Elena

Finally he said, "Do you know what you mean to me, Elena?"

"What do I mean to you?"

His hand came up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness even as his other hand remained on my breast, a study in contrasts. "You mean that if I lost you, I would lose my mind."

The words hung between us, stark and terrifying in their intensity. Not a casual admission—something deeper, more consuming. The kind of need that could destroy a person.

I should have been frightened. Maybe part of me was. But mostly I felt fierce joy, because it meant I wasn't alone in this. He felt it too—this magnetic pull, this sense that we'd been orbiting each other for years, spiraling closer until collision became inevitable.

"Then don't lose me," I said simply, and leaned up to kiss him again.

This time when his tongue swept into my mouth, his hand slid from my breast down my stomach, over my hip, finding the hem of my dress and slipping beneath. His fingers traced up my inner thigh, slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. But I didn't want him to stop. I wanted more.

When his fingers finally brushed against the damp silk of my underwear, we both made sounds—him a low groan of satisfaction, me a whimper of need. He traced the outline of me through the fabric, learning my shape, and I was already trembling.

"So wet," he murmured against my lips, almost wonderingly. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," I gasped as his fingers pressed more firmly. "Always. Only you."

Something in him seemed to break at those words. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and pulled them down my legs, helping me step out of them. Then his hand returned, this time with nothing between his skin and mine, and when his fingers finally parted me and found how ready I was, I cried out.

He worked me with the same precision he brought to everything else, fingers circling and stroking and learning exactly what made me gasp, what made me arch against him. When he finally slid one finger inside me I nearly came undone, the stretch and fullness after so long making me dizzy.

"More," I managed, and he added a second finger, curling them inside me in a way that made stars burst behind my eyelids. His thumb found the bundle of nerves above and I shattered, crying out his name as pleasure crashed through me in waves.

He held me through it, murmuring words in French I was too far gone to translate, his fingers gentling but not stopping until I was trembling and oversensitized. When I finally came back to myself I was half-collapsed against him, my dress rucked up around my waist, completely undone.

"Bedroom," he said, voice rough with restraint. "Now."

He carried me to the bed and laid me down gently, then stepped back. For a moment I thought he was going to leave, was going to retreat back into that maddening control. But then he started unbuttoning his shirt, movements deliberate, eyes never leaving mine.

When he was bare-chested before me I couldn't help but stare. I'd seen him shirtless before—at the pool, once when he'd been changing—but never like this, never with permission to look my fill. He was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache, all lean muscle and elegant lines, though I could see the faint scar on his right thigh where the surgeons had put him back together after the accident.

"Your turn," he said, nodding at my dress.

I sat up and pulled it over my head, suddenly shy despite everything we'd just done. I was wearing only the necklace he'd given me, the ribbon pendant catching the lightning flashes from outside.

"Perfect," he breathed, moving to kneel between my legs. "You're perfect."

Then his mouth was on me and I stopped thinking entirely. He used his tongue the way he'd used his fingers, learning me, finding every spot that made me gasp and moan. When he sealed his lips around that sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked, I came again, hands fisting in his hair, thighs trembling around his head.

He kissed his way back up my body, pausing to lavish attention on my breasts, tongue circling my nipples until I was writhing beneath him. When he finally reached my mouth I could taste myself on his lips, and the intimacy of it made me bold.

I reached between us and found him through his trousers, hard and thick, and he groaned into my mouth. I worked the button and zipper with clumsy fingers until I could wrap my hand around him, hot and silky and so hard I knew it had to be painful.

"Elena," he gasped, hips jerking into my touch. "We don't have to—if you're not ready—"

"I'm ready," I said, guiding him to my entrance. "I want this. I want you."

He pushed inside slowly, so slowly, giving me time to adjust to the stretch. It burned a little—it had been a while, and he was bigger than I was used to—but it was a good burn, a fullness that felt right.

When he was fully seated inside me we both went still, just breathing, adjusting to the sensation. Then he started to move, long slow strokes that built the pleasure gradually, and I wrapped my legs around his waist to take him deeper.

"God," he groaned, face buried in my neck. "You feel—I can't—"

"Don't stop," I gasped, nails digging into his back. "Please don't stop."

He didn't. He moved faster, harder, one hand gripping my hip while the other braced beside my head. The angle shifted and suddenly he was hitting something inside me that made me see stars, and I cried out, clenching around him.

"There," he said roughly. "Right there. I can feel you getting close again."

He was right. The pleasure was building impossibly fast, tightening like a coil in my belly. His thumb found that sensitive spot between my legs and circled it, and I shattered for the third time, crying out his name as my whole body convulsed.

He followed me over the edge moments later, groaning my name, hips stuttering as he spilled inside me. Then he collapsed beside me, careful not to crush me, both of us gasping for breath.

Outside, thunder rolled across the vineyards, and the rain fell harder, and neither of us noticed anything but each other.