The Rent-A-Groom by Jennifer Blake Page A

pressed deep, she contracted around his fingers in fervent internal embrace.
     
    The intrusion stung, burned, in spite of its inciting glory. She closed her eyes tight as she pressed her face into his shoulder.
     
    A winded sound left him. His every muscle stiffened, and he tried to draw back as he recognized the barrier he had reached. She would not release him.
     
    “No,” he whispered against her hair in strained tones. “I can’t. You—”
     
    “It doesn’t matter. Please,” she answered in low entreaty while she pressed closer.
     
    A shudder ran over him as he reigned in his ardor. He took her mouth in a kiss of plundering, near-desperate need. Then slowly, carefully, he began to ease the way for her with deliberate stretching movements. At the same time, he centered the ball of his thumb on the tiny peak of her femininity so that his every effort compounded the waves of pleasure rippling through her.
     
    Her muscles tensed. Her chest rose and fell in increasing tempo that kept pace with the hot rush of her blood. Their damp skins clung. She smoothed her hands over his arms and shoulders, clasping, holding. Reaching lower, she closed her fingers around the vibrant, fevered hardness of his silken length. It pulsed against her palm, straining in bold power toward the inevitable union.
     
    Desire burgeoned, hovered, erupted into sudden, bright ecstasy. She gave a soft cry as she arched against him. He shifted at once to cover her, fitting himself between her thighs. At the towering crest of her pleasure, he pressed into her wet, hot softness. He held the joining while he tasted her mouth once more, sounding it, drinking its sweetness. Then he drew back a little. Watching her face, holding her gaze in the dimness, he eased deeper, penetrating her internal constriction so carefully there was only an instant of aching strain before she was swept into beatitude.
     
    At that extreme he stopped, and with a slow twist of his hips he tested the tight, resilient walls of her most secret self. She met the glistening darkness of his eyes while her heart swelled with fullness. She held nothing back then, but let him into her utmost depth, opening it to him like swinging wide the gate of a fenced enclosure.
     
    The breath he took had a soft hissing sound. His supporting arms quivered with the effort of his control, the restriction of his need.
     
    Then he began to move.
     
    The loving was a dance, fast and slow, lurching now and then, but gaining a steady, throbbing cadence that increased in strength, swelled in tempo and vital intensity. It was a melody both old and new, strange and familiar, wild and gentle in its piercingly sweet refrain.
     
    And unending. It beat in their blood, gaining force, rising, ever rising. It spread, building in volume, gathering speed, spawning variations. Advancing, retreating, ascending, plummeting, they followed its lead with panting breaths and moisture-slick bodies, with raging hearts and fierce minds. It surged around them, a song of wonder that rushed into a sudden, incomparable crescendo ringing to a single note held long and strong. It burst in their minds with unimagined splendor, flooding their bodies with life and grace and delicate, merging wholeness.
     
    It did not fade, but was sustained, held pure and true and clear as they held each other afterward. Gina could hear it still even as she fell asleep as if hit with a stun gun, lying with her head nestled into the curve of Race’s neck, his arms wrapped around her.
     
    Much later in the night she felt him ease away from her. Murmuring in distress, she reached out. He returned to her at once, kissing the tucked corner of her mouth so she smiled even in semi consciousness. He brushed her hair aside to stroke her cheek with his own, letting her feel the slight abrasion of his beard stubble, the smoothness of his eyelids with moisture at their tight line, the sweep of his lashes. Satisfied, she settled deeper into her