Page 58 of Lash

"Lash," I whisper again, saying his name as a prayer, as a plea.

He kisses my chin. My throat. My breastbone, and the tender path between my breasts, and then my belly.

"Oh god, please," I whisper, letting my hands rest on his damp head, guiding him to where I so badly want him.

He gives me what I want, the soft friction of his beard against the tender silk of my inner thighs delicious and heady, his tongue hot and clever against my clit. I moan and whimper, bucking my hips to ride his mouth, and his powerful hands drive up my thighs and cover my breasts. Climax rises inside me, a hurricane of sensation centered on my core, and I cling to Lash as it builds and builds. He seems to know my body as if it were created especially for him, slowing his touch when I need a break, renewing his fervor and speed to bring me back to the edge, slipping two curling, questing fingers inside me when I need that touch, need something inside me.

"Lash!" I cry, as orgasm swells and rocks through me. "Oh god, oh god, Lash!"

He guides me through it, tongue swirling and probing, fingers driving and sweeping. I come and I come, riding a wave of climax that leaves me screaming and shaking, weeping and trembling.

My purse is on the bedside table—when he finally allows me to quake down from the peak of climax, I grab it and rummage blindly in it until I find the string of condoms. I rip one free, tear it open with my teeth.

Plucking the ring of latex from the package, I grip his erection and caress him until he groans and his hips begin to buck. I roll the condom onto his thick length and then pull him toward me.

"Come here,” I murmur, "make love to me."

He twists, his hard, muscular, broad body levering over me. I open my thighs for him, curling my legs around his ass and pulling him close. Reach between our bodies and find his hardness waiting for me. He braces his hands beside my face, long black hair a shampoo-scented curtain. His dark eyes blaze with emotion, searching me.

I fit him to my entrance, and my mouth drops open, quivering as he spreads my sex apart with his thick cock. "Lash," I whisper. "God, yes."

Raw emotion ravages his face, and I don't need him to explain what he’s feeling—he wears it openly for me, letting me see everything: need and desire, desperation and hunger, fear and nervousness, sadness, even; love.

"Tati," he breathes. "Tatiana."

I meet his gaze and let the pure joy I feel wash over my expression. "Lash."

His eyes shimmer. "Nicolae," he whispers. "I think perhaps Lash can return to the shadows whence he came."

"Nicolae," I say, rolling my hips in small circles with him notched just barely inside me.

"Nico," he breathes, eyes squeezing shut, a tear slipping down one cheek, disappearing into his beard. "Let me be your Nico."

He is laying his ghosts to rest. Burying the past. Stepping into the future.

I tilt my hips, taking him fully inside me. "Nico," I whimper, my own eyes shining wet and locked on his. "Nico. My Nico."

He groans, burying his face between my breasts. I hold onto his head and meet his thrusts, and our bodies move together in a union of joy and ecstasy. His thrusts grow faster and harder, and I cry out each time he drives home inside me, and I clutch at his ass with my legs, holding onto his head with both hands as he arches and bows his spine with each ravaging thrust. He lengthens above me, and my legs fall apart and I draw my heels up against my ass and accept with eager panting cries the hard, fast, driving wonder of his cock as it fills me, withdraws, fills, withdraws.

"Tati," he growls. "Come with me."

I fit my fingers to my clit and circle, and my cries grow desperate. "Nico! I'm going to come, Nicolae. I'm going to—right now."

“Tati,” he gasps. "Tatiana, oh god, oh god, Tatiana!”

I feel him release inside me, his thrusts wild and rough, and I come through it, weeping and whimpering and wailing as wave after wave of orgasm washes over me, slashes through me. My hips tip and tilt, drive and circle as I come, desperately thrusting against him.

Slowly, we drift down the other side together, panting and sweating. Lash—Nicolae—gives me his weight, resting his face against my breasts as I roam his shoulders and back with my hands.

"Nico," I breathe.

"Tati…" He whispers, his voice shaking and fraught. "Tatiana, I…" I hear throat-shredding raspy hoarse agony in his voice. Wonder. Embarrassment.

I push at his heavy shoulder, and he rolls to his back, turns his face away from me. I lean over him and kiss his cheek. He doesn’t respond, but his shoulders lift and fall, and then shake.

"Lash—Nicolae. Look at me, please." I cup his cheek, the one pressed into the pillow away from me.

He growls, gruff and harsh, a ragged negative. "A moment."