Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy by Cheryl Holt

onto her bed. They bounced on the mattress; then he rolled and pinned her down.
    Having no notion of what to do next, he stared at her, and his expression was filled with such longing and confusion that it was almost comical. He was on edge and keen to lash out, but he wouldn't be violent. His energy had to be channeled in another direction, into conduct she couldn't describe but relished.
    She reached out and placed her hands on his chest. His skin was warm and soft, and at feeling her he was pushed off the cliff where he'd been perched.
    He initiated a searing kiss, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers in her hair. He seemed to be searching for something, or pleading for something, though she wasn't sure what it was. She felt as if she were on a ship at sea, that she was being tossed in turbulent waves and about to sink to the bottom. She had to hold on and hope that he would guide her safely to the shore when the tempest had passed.
    'Touch me all over," he ordered. "Don't stop for a single second." "I won't."
    At his command she realized that she'd been lying like a statue, and she leapt into the foray, stroking his shoulders, his back, even daring once to dip down and massage his buttocks.
    Her caress was like lightening, electrifying him, and his passion grew more intense, his need more powerful. Her own body was in an awful state, her pulse pounding, her nipples throbbing.
    He settled himself between her legs, his torso fitting there as if it had been specially created to welcome him. His privates were wedged to hers in a way that she recognized and craved, and as he clutched her to him and began to thrust, her hips met his with an equal vigor.
    "What are you doing to me?" she managed on a gasp.
    "I've explained this before: I'm making love to you. Pay attention."
    "But you keep flexing into me. Why?"
    "It's how a man makes love to a woman, how a husband makes love to his wife."
    "I don't understand."
    "Does it feel good?"
    "Yes."
    "Then you don't need to understand. Just do it for me."
    "Beast!" she chided.
    "Yes, I am. I'm a beast, and you're crazy to be with me like this."
    "I'm not afraid of you." "You should be." "I'm not."
    He was fumbling with her gown, struggling with the buttons, but in his frustrated condition, he couldn't free them.
    "Bloody dress! Next time I come in here"—her heart soared at the prospect of there being a next time—"have your clothes off prior to my arrival. I want you naked and waiting for me. Save me all this trouble!"
    He was jerking at the fabric and about to rip the garment in half. She had such limited apparel and couldn't have him destroying any of it.
    "Stop!" she scolded. "If you need me to remove my dress, we can discuss it like civilized people. I won't permit you to tear it to shreds as if you were some sort of barbarian."
    "I want it off now!"
    He gave a ferocious tug as material split and buttons flew. With a smirk of satisfaction, he rolled them again so that he was on the bottom and she was draped across him, her breasts spilling into his hands. He squeezed the two mounds, pinching the nipples, and she hissed with pleasure.
    "This is how I desire you," he said. "This is all I contemplate, all I ponder. My dreams of having you like this—they consume me!"
    "That can't be true."
    "Have you any idea how I've longed for you?"
    "No."
    "Can you imagine how difficult it's been to be right next door, to yearn for you so badly but not be able to have you?"
    "I can imagine." She'd been dying to be with him, too, but she couldn't bear to suppose that he'd felt the same.
    He rooted to her breast and took the tip into his mouth, nursing as a babe would its mother, though with none of the tenderness. He was rough and insistent, and he seemed to know what she needed when she wasn't aware herself. She didn't want gentle treatment or placid interaction. She wanted fire and heat, and he gave all she required and so much more.
    He kept on and on, until she was writhing in misery, in