He would go carefully.
His hands were now fisted on the arms of the chair because he didn’t trust himself to touch her, to circle her waist or grip her hips, lest he bruise her in his lust. He was close to the brink, skating along the edge of brutal animality, and the only thing keeping him tethered to stillness was the knowledge that this was Eleanor, his vernal Eleanor. Stronger than anyone else he’d ever known, even though she shouldn’t have had to be. He did not want her to hurt for this night. He wanted this to be worth every single ounce of the risk she was taking.
With a low whimper and the flutter of her eyelids, she worked her way down another inch as she murmured, “It doesn’t hurt, I don’t think. It’s close to hurt, but it’s not—oh—”
Another inch. Her head fell back, and the golden hair around her breasts slid and shifted, revealing the bunched points of her nipples. He surveyed the flushed heave of her plump breasts as she panted, examined the subtle quiver of her stomach. He greedily traced the arch of her throat and the bevel of her collarbone with his eyes, committing every last bit of it to memory. He could never forget this, how she looked, how she felt. How huskily she moaned and whispered, the way she murmured his name over and over again like a prayer as she took another inch, and then another, and another, and then a couple. With a final whimper, she impaled herself fully, and then shuddered, falling against him and tucking herself into his chest.
Her trust gutted him. The sweet clasp of her crucified him. He could no more stop himself from wrapping his arms around her once more than he could stop himself from breathing. He slid his hands up and down her bare back, gentling her, soothing her, reassuring her every time she moved and then gasped.
“It hurts a little now,” she whispered against his skin, and then nuzzled into him. “I feel it everywhere, in my chest and in my bones, and I never want to stop feeling it. It’s like…a song. Or like a strong wine. Every time I think I’m not sure, it lures me back in again.”
He kissed her head, her silky hair so impossibly soft against his lips. She smelled so wonderful, like rain and fire and flowers. “Take your time,” he said, his voice coming out both reverent and rough. “Take anything you need.”
They stayed like this for a few minutes, her speared with his prick and curled trustingly against him, Jarrell stone-still except for his gentling hands on her back and the shaking of his muscles, which he could not control.
The restraint it took not to move or to come . . .
Sweat began to slick his stomach and his chest, but he would not yield to his need. He would give her this, he would give her anything, he would give her everything, because he loved—
No.
Fear, cold and ugly, roiled inside him at the word. He did not love her, he could not. It was impossible, because if he did love her—
I don’t, he thought, and with a short thrust of his hips, he tried to prove it to himself. It’s only the fucking. I should know better, because, of course, it’s only the fucking.
But whatever he was trying to prove was beside the point, because as soon as he moved into her, she made a noise that changed everything—a noise of curious delight. Of exquisite surprise.
And then, of course, he made a noise, too, because it was the first full stroke into her, the first real thrust, and it felt better than heaven. It felt like dying terribly only to be brought back to life, and he had to do it again, he had to, and so he did.
“Oh God,” she breathed, lifting her head. Goose bumps covered her everywhere. “Ajax.”
He tried to remember himself, to remember that this was Eleanor’s first time. “Yes, little blossom?”
A pretty smile curved her mouth. “Do it again.”
He did it again, a smile pulling on his own lips as he watched her eyes flutter in rapture. “Does it still hurt?”
“No,” she said dreamily. “And yes. I can’t describe it. But I want more of it.”
“You can have as much as you want,” he said, taking her hips in his hands and showing her how to move over him—not up and down, but back and forth, as if she were riding a horse. “Feel how I’m moving you now. Let me lead you—yes, you like that? You like feeling me? Keep going, just like that. Christ, you feel good.”
The first rock forward had her shuddering; the second one had her gasping. After that, she didn’t need his hands to guide her, to show her the way, because she found it all on her own, following her pleasure as she circled over him, chasing the friction as she ground against him.
And once she found that perfect angle, that perfect rolling of her hips that allowed her to be serviced both inside and outside?
She was lost to him then, lost beyond all reach. He held her, he stroked her, he grunted low, filthy words of encouragement to her, but the pleasure was taking her for its own, stealing her away bit by deliciously flushed bit. Her hands wandered over his muscled arms and firm chest; her fingers toyed with the dark hair there and skated over his nipples. She scratched her nails gently over his stubble and bent low to lick his lips.
She was fucking him, using him, pleasuring herself with him, and he never wanted her to stop.
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s it.”
She dropped her head back as she moved faster and faster over him, her breasts moving with each snap of her hips and each desperate breath she dragged in. He could so easily see the sweet anatomy of her like this—the pink berry rubbing against him, the stretch of her wet glove around his erection. Her arched throat and her pouting nipples.
But it was her face he watched the most, the expressions that chased themselves over her upturned features. Astonishment, ecstasy. Hunger. He could watch her like this for hours. For days.
For the rest of his life.
If she were his little wife…
If she were his, then he could. He could have her always, have her in his lap like this whenever she wanted—which, judging by her eagerness now, would be quite often indeed. He’d have his hands full keeping a young bride sated, but it would be the world’s sweetest labor, a duty he’d gladly deliver up anything and everything he owned in order to perform.
What if it’s not just the fucking?
What if I love her?
What did that mean about him? That he could love again? Did it mean he’d loved Helena any less? Mourned his losses imperfectly? He used to think so, and yet…
“Ajax,” Eleanor moaned, her head falling forward and her hands seizing on his shoulders, as if trying to anchor herself against a buffeting storm. As if trying to hold on.
“How is this pretty cunt?” he whispered. “How does it feel?”
“I—good—but—”
The but was written all over her face. It was something like panic, something like fear, like the feeling was too big, too overwhelming. He knew that feeling all too well, though he hadn’t felt it for sixteen years. It was the feeling of a looming climax that didn’t feel like a climax at all but a ruin, an annihilation, something that would rip you in half and leave you dying after. The kind of orgasm you didn’t know whether to reach for or run away from.
He held her tight against his chest as the first wave took her, as she cried out his name. “I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair, once again fighting his own body as it keened to fuck up into her sweetness. “I’ve got you.”