When Bruce Met Cyn (23 page)

Cyn's back arched. The pleasure was exquisite and acute and she wanted him, now. It was so easy for him to make her hot, when she hadn't even realized such a thing was possible. Sex to her had been a means to an end, a function to perform. But with Bruce, it was nothing like that. It was…more personal. Pure, raw pleasure. And addictive, because every time he touched her, she wanted more.

But she needed to touch him, too. She viewed his body differently from all the men who'd come before him. Bruce wasn't a chore; he was a craving.

Just as her hand began climbing his thigh toward the rock-hard cock that pressed into her bottom, he snagged her dress and hoisted the hem high. Cyn started to object, but his teeth closed carefully over her shoulder and the mingling of pleasure with the twinge of apprehension heightened her need. “Bruce?”

Wet, open-mouthed kisses left her skin sizzling as Bruce whispered, “Hold your dress up for me, Cyn.”

She didn't even think of arguing. She bunched the material in her fists and lifted it as high as she could.

“Now, brace your feet apart.” And in a growl: “I want to touch you.”

The words alone almost put her over the top. She was inching her legs open when his hard thigh insinuated its way between her knees and nudged her legs far apart.

Using his left hand, he kept her nipple captive with a steady pressure between his finger and thumb. With the other, he dipped into her panties and found her wide-open sex.

Cyn's head fell back; she braced her shoulders on his chest. “How do you always do this to me?”

His fingertips parted her, but he didn't press in. “I'm the one man meant for you, sweetheart. Remember that. What we have is special because we're special together.”

“Together?” She found the breath to huff. “You're always the one doing—”

His finger pressed in, fast and deep and Cyn cried out as her hips shot forward, her thoughts and grievances obliterated.

Bruce seemed in no hurry. For long minutes, he indulged foreplay, making love to her with his hand, using his mouth, his fingers, his entire body to push her to the brink. It was their wedding day, a day she'd expected to luxuriate in the bed with him.

And instead he brought her to a screaming climax while standing and half dressed.

Cyn slumped into him, limp and sweaty, her mind a blank slate, her bones useless. Bruce held her, continuing to kiss her throat and ear and jaw-line until she'd finally regained her breath.

When cognizance returned and she went rigid, Bruce asked, “You okay?”

She wrenched herself free and turned toward him, her mouth open to blast him, and just that quickly, Bruce toppled her to the bed. Stunned immobile, she watched as Bruce came down over her.

Her breasts were offered up by the taut restriction of the gown and Bruce eyed her rosy, stiffened nipples for only a heartbeat before closing his mouth over one and suckling.

“You're ruining my dress,” Cyn tried to grouch, but the words sounded more like a wail. She was still so sensitive, still in the aftermath of a fabulous orgasm.

It didn't matter anyway, because Bruce paid no attention to her complaint. Maybe because her fingers were laced in his hair, holding him close to her breast. Maybe because her legs had opened so that he could settle between. Maybe because her hips were lifting in rhythmic invitation.

She was so alive with sensations from her release, that in only moments she was ready, even anxious, again.

“I can't believe you're mine,” Bruce whispered.

But was he hers?
Not yet.
Before the day ended, Cyn vowed things would be different. She'd take him, and then some. “I want you, Bruce.”

“You have me. Forever.” He took her mouth hungrily to seal that promise, while stroking his fingers over her cheek, her throat, and her breasts again.

Suddenly he sat up and Cyn, hungry for him, opened her eyes to see him unfastening his trousers.

Finally.
She tried to help, but he said, “Let's get you out of this dress.” He flipped her onto her stomach and went to work on her zipper, pulling it all the way down to the bottom of her spine.

Now that they were married, Cyn had wanted this time to involve both of them. She wanted to touch him, too, to taste him everywhere and explore his body. But Bruce seemed bound and determined to hold her off.

Utilizing great care for the delicate material, he stripped the gown off her, leaving her in panties and garter-top nylons. He turned her to her back again and simply stared at her, from head to toes, his gaze growing more heated by the moment.

Then he touched her, letting his hands explore everywhere at once—soft, teasing touches, then firm caresses and gentle coaxing. Through it all, he fended her off, refusing to let her touch him at all.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore, either, and stood to push his pants and boxers off.

It was late afternoon. Turning off the lights would do him no good. The drapes in his bedroom weren't thick enough to block out the daylight. Lying on her back on the bed, Cyn got her first good look at her husband, and he was magnificent.

The dark blond hair on his head contrasted sharply with his dark lashes and brows, and the darker body hair on his chest and thighs. His stomach was flat, his muscles clearly defined.

And he was her husband. A man with a heart of pure gold and a body to make women swoon.

Cyn considered removing her stockings and underwear, but then Bruce returned with a condom in hand.

“Sorry. This is going to be fast and furious,” he said as he rolled on the protection. “I'd have preferred otherwise, but it's just not possible.”

“It doesn't matter.”

He shook his head and laughed, stripped her panties down and off, and came between her legs.

“Put your arms around me, sweetheart. Hold me.”

She was already doing it. Her legs, too. She wanted to hold him tight so he couldn't ever pull away from her again.

Bruce took her mouth, his tongue stroking hers, and Cyn felt the hard, hot length of his erection pushing inside her. She was wet enough that he eased right in, deeper and deeper, and she clamped down with a shuddering moan, thrilled to have him finally, to possess every part of him.

When he was fully seated, they groaned in unison. Bruce went still for a moment, eyes closed, face relaxed as he luxuriated in the sensation of being completely joined. Then his muscles twitched, his breath caught, and with a growl, he began thrusting—hard, heavy strokes, fast and deep, and Cyn loved it.

In no time at all, Bruce threw back his head and clenched his jaw tight. His chest heaved, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched, and Cyn knew he was coming.

Through a haze of pleasure and love, she watched him, amazed that seeing a man so out of control, so lost in release, was such a turn-on.

By small degrees his body lowered to hers. He kept his face turned into her throat while gulping air, and he was still inside her.

Cyn opened her hands wide and ran them up and down his broad back. His skin was damp now with sweat, hot from exertion.

She loved him so much. “You can sleep if you want.”

His lashes tickled her neck as he slowly opened his eyes. “Not likely.” He stirred enough to roll to his back, but he brought Cyn with him, curling her into his side with her head on his shoulder. “It's going to take me a little time to get used to having you.”

“Yeah?”

Eyes closed, he nodded. “I've thought about making love to you from the moment I first saw you. And no, it wasn't just your looks, though I can't deny I love seeing you in those pale nylons.”

“Kinky.”

“I'm getting there.” He sighed out a long breath. “Of course, it'd be the same if you weren't wearing nylons. You, Mrs. Kelly, are just so unique, so full of spirit, that I can't be around you without indulging a few lecherous thoughts.”

Mrs. Kelly. Wow, she liked the sound of that. She laughed and tangled her fingers in his chest hair. “Now we need a shower. We're both sweaty.”

He patted her hip and started to rise. “Right. I'll go first.”

Cyn snagged him back with her hold on his chest hair. “I don't think so.”

He glanced down at her.

“We'll shower together.”

Very slowly, Bruce's eyes darkened as he looked down at her. He held her wrist so she couldn't pull on his chest hair. “My shower is awfully small, Cyn. I don't think we'll both fit.”

Cyn pushed him flat and crawled atop him. “We will. And this time, you'll give me my turn.”

He eyed her breasts, just inches above his face. “Your turn at what?”

“At pleasuring you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don't need to do that.”

“But I—”

He rolled her to her back, patted her thigh, and pushed off the bed in a rush. “Stay put. I'll make it quick and then you can take a turn.”

Cyn watched him leave, almost choking on her hurt. Damn him, why did he hold her at arm's length? Did her expertise with sexual matters disgust him? For certain, he'd never let her show him any expertise. He treated her like an ignorant virgin, as if screwing was permissible, but anything more was dirty.

Well, it was time Bruce Kelly realized just how dirty she wanted to be with him. If being herself repulsed him, then he'd have to tell her outright.

She left the bed and stood in front of the dresser mirror, removing the pins from her hair until the dark mass cascaded down her back.

As she headed to the bathroom, she heard the shower running, heard Bruce splashing around. She stepped into the tiny bathroom, drew the shower curtain back, and found Bruce soaping up one underarm.

Cyn plastered on a smile, and stepped in with him. Bruce's soap hit the tub floor.

 

He couldn't do this, Bruce thought as he watched Cyn step gloriously naked beneath the shower spray, soaking her long, dark hair until it hung around her round, pale breasts and trickled down her smooth belly into her pubic curls.

There were a hundred different ways he wanted to ravish her—raunchy, hot scenarios that crowded his brain at every opportunity. He wanted her on her back, he wanted her astride him. He wanted her on her knees…He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to obliterate that provoking image.

Cyn needed to know that he respected her, that she was precious to him. As his wife, she was by far the most important person in his world. He didn't want to treat her like an experienced woman because her past didn't matter to him. She didn't need to use her sexuality to keep him.

But if she insisted on flaunting herself in front of him…He was only a man, a man deeply in love with his wife.

Water trickled off her still-rosy nipples and gathered like tears on her lush lashes. “Don't worry, Bruce,” she said, “I won't hurt you.”

Smiling pained him, but then he was already so hard again, moving was an effort. “I'll be finished in just a moment,” he said. But he didn't move. The soap was between her feet, and no way could he bend down there without kissing her, without enjoying the delicious scent of her.

Cyn did the unexpected. She turned her back to him, then bent for the soap.

Lord have mercy, the things this one particular woman did to him. He couldn't take his eyes off her heart-shaped rear, and then his hands were on her, stroking her wet hips.

Cyn straightened and slowly turned toward him. “I'll finish your bath for you.”

He should have objected. He should have left the shower. Instead, he stood there while she worked the soap between her hands until she had a good, frothy collection of suds. She put the soap in the wall dish and, with a siren's smile, placed her hands on his shoulders.

His shoulders weren't sexual, for crying out loud, but his erection bobbed in disagreement, feeling the slick, smoothing motion of her small hands as surely as if she clasped him. Her palms moved down over his own nipples, back and forth once, making his breath catch, then down, down.

She went to one knee and lathered his right thigh.

Bruce closed his eyes and leaned back on the tiled shower wall. Maybe if he didn't watch her, he could handle this. Then again…maybe not.

She was quite thorough, rubbing her small, soft hands over every inch of his body, except for where he wanted her touch the most.

Her breasts were slick against his back while she washed his shoulders, the backs of his thighs and between them. She came so close to touching him that his control faltered and he nearly grabbed her.

Then she was on her knees in front of him again, paying extra attention to his abdomen, his navel, down his hips to his legs and feet.

He felt her breath.

Bruce swallowed and opened his eyes just as her fingers closed firmly around him. One hand held the base of his erect penis while the other cuddled his testicles. The showerhead sprayed over them both, but the warm water barely penetrated his senses, not when competing with her warm breath and warmer touch.

“Relax, Bruce.”

His hand knotted a fistful of her slippery wet hair. “You don't have to do this.”

She looked up at him, her eyes big and beseeching, her lips parted. “I want to.”

His resistance crumpled. Rather than holding her away, he drew her forward until her lips touched the head of his penis. Her tongue came out, licking daintily, again and again, until he labored for breath and his testicles were tight with the need to ejaculate. And just when he knew he couldn't bear it anymore, she swallowed his length, drawing him into the wet heat of her mouth, her clever tongue moving over him, around the sensitive head, driving him insane while pushing him toward release.

Bruce rumbled out a long groan, and he held her there with his sex in her mouth, her lips tight around him, and he felt himself ready to come. “That's enough,” he growled shakily.

But she didn't pull back.

He fought it, saying in a rush, “Cyn, honey, you have to stop.”