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His elbows rested heavily on either side of my head. Holding my hair, he pulled me away from his ear, his nose rubbing mine, his mouth starving for more of me. His tongue swept over the roof of my mouth.

Between us his length pulsed. Easing up on his knees, he rubbed the tip of his cock over my pussy. Up, down, he bumped and prodded with gentle but unstoppable pressure. I was slick from coming; it made it easier for him to enter me.

“Tch,” I hissed. “You’re huge.”

“I’ll go slow at first.”At first.Costello’s whole body was buzzing under my palms, especially when I reached down to feel the indents on his lower back, the hard muscles in his gorgeous ass.

His hot breath tickled the threads of hair hanging in my face. A simple shift, and he was inside me another inch. Again he moved, the ridge of his cock-head scraping along my inner walls. Lying there as he pushed me to my limit, holding steady under his weight and strength ... it was like nothing else.

Being frozen in his embrace made his slow insertion more of an experience. If he’d slammed right in, it would have been simpler. Costello didn’t do simple. He was making me live through this single stroke that went on forever.

How did he have so much damn control?

“Wow,” I gasped, “how much more of you is there?”

He sounded as if he’d been swallowing gravel. “Just wait. Wait a bit more. Fuck, Scotch, you’re sotight.” I glimpsed his eyes—wild, dark. He was losing himself as he sank inside me.

Then he was there, resting, pulsing. I could swear he was under my navel, spearing me in half. I knew better, but logic didn’t win over my arousal. Shaking, I tried to wrap my legs around him, but he pushed his palms on my knees, keeping me spread severely.

I’d been afraid of how much of him there was, but now it wasn’t enough. It didn’t become enough until he started pumping into me with greater speed. The impact was solid; it rattled my teeth. My clit throbbed with every smooth roll of his pelvis.

His chest pounded against mine, his lungs working overtime, his throat shredding. Costello’s mouth was pulled into a grimace, as if this was hurting him. As if this was too much.

Even in his sexual haze he sensed my worry. He smothered it with his teeth on my throat, nipping more than kissing, pricks of pain I wanted never to end. Here there was no fear. I wasn’t being chased, no one wanted me dead. Costello and I could live forever like this, bonded by our hips and hearts and everything in between.

I wanted that.

More than anything, I ...

Grunting, he hunched into me. “I’m coming, I can’t hold back any longer. Scotch, fuck, you feel so good. So fucking good.” His voice rumbled in my ear. My brain gave up, letting down what fraction of ego was left so that I finally moaned with abandon. My sobs echoed, whimpers thrilling us both.

He flexed in me, becoming impossibly thicker. That was all I needed to come again, my bones threatening to detach as I shook under the wild, savage bliss. His shaft swelled, warm wetness soaking into my already saturated depths. He came in me, and still he remained solid through his aftershocks.

Costello gazed into my eyes. His eyebrows were contorted, his pupils small as the points of sewing needles. His sharpness was gone, obliterated by our connection. Sweet as honey he kissed me. My lips tingled, close to abused by his earlier fervor.

I leaned back, smiling uncertainly. “That was amazing.”

He hung his head and turned away. Releasing my knees, Costello pulled out of me with a hiss. My body was clinging to him. I didn’t want him to leave, not a little bit. I was relieved when he didn’t abandon me, instead collapsing beside me on the bed.

Looking at the ceiling, he said, “It really was.”

Watching him was its own kind of pleasure. He was naked and beautiful, reclining with his arms folded behind his head. His biceps were big enough that they could hide his cheekbones at the right angle. The designs on his skin rippled when he adjusted his position.

“Do they all have a story?” I whispered, tracing the ink.

“Yes.”

Biting my lip, I followed the hollow of his throat and down his sternum, lingering on the blue-and-black drawing of a bird in flight. “This one.”

His chuckle was warm as whiskey in the morning. “That’s a swallow. I had it done after I went skydiving in Australia.”

I whistled. “Fancy.” He curled his lip in mock disgust; I loved it. “And here, this skull?”

His fingers stilled where they’d begun caressing my naked shoulder. “The first time I ever killed a man.”

I’d known from day one that Costello was dangerous ... that he was capable of killing, and surely had many times. But lying beside him, I wasn’t scared. My uncle had accused me of being morbidly curious too many times to count. He’d assured me it would help me someday.

There was no way he could have predicted how.