Just This Once by Rosalind James Page B

knew she needed more. She needed everything. She tugged at his
shoulders, pulled him up to her.
    “Take these off. Please. I need to see you too.” She yanked
at his belt and shorts, clumsy in her haste. He helped her, pulling shorts and
underwear off in one swift toss, so he was finally hers to hold.
    There was a lot there to hold, she realized. She touched
him, held him, stroked where he was hard against her. Then reached around to
hold him from behind, pull him onto her, frantic to feel him with her, inside
her.
    “Wait,” he gasped. “Condom. Shit.” He dove from the bed and
turned out the pockets of his shorts, frantically searching. After what seemed
like forever, he was back with her, pulling her up with him toward the head of
the bed.
    “Please. Now.” She opened to him, pulled him to her, and
urged him to go where he needed to be.
    He held back, one last bit of control, not wanting to go too
fast, to hurt her. He eased inside as she stretched to receive him, gasping and
opening her eyes wide as he filled her.
    “That feels . . . so good,” she moaned, as he began
to move inside her. “Oh, Drew. Oh, no.”
    He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, as he found himself, at last,
inside her where he had wanted to be for so long. And slowed his pace. It felt
too good to rush, now. He had to feel the silk of her, pull back to look at her
beneath him, head back, eyes closed, her mouth just open, sighing. Her hips
against him, moving, drawing him into her.
    He kept up the slow rock, but felt his control slip as her
response became more abandoned, her breath coming out in little cries at each
slow thrust. And found himself moving faster, harder, needing more of her.
     He raised himself on one elbow as he continued to move, put
his hand over her white breast, ran it over the nipple, pinched it between his
fingers. Heard her cry out at the added sensation, her head thrashing to the
side against the pillow, and lost another vestige of his control. She was so
beautiful, so abandoned, he needed more.
    “Turn over,” he gasped as he flipped her, pulling her by the
waist to her knees. “I need to do this,” he groaned, half-apologetically,
half-triumphantly, looking at her beneath him, her elbows supporting herself,
her wonderful, round bottom rising to meet him as he slid into her once more.
He reached one hand around from behind and held her there, his fingers moving
over her strongly as he pushed into her from behind, even harder, almost out of
control now.
    She writhed under him, gasping, rearing back to meet him,
stroke for stroke. As his hand continued to move over her, she began to pant,
squirming back against him, asking for more, and even more. He felt her strong
interior muscles contract around him as she released, spasming against him,
around him, the intensity of her orgasm forcing her to cry out, pushing back,
over and over, the waves strong and hard.
    He couldn’t help it. His excitement was so strong, her body
beneath him so delicious, her surrender to her pleasure so absolute. He held
her even more tightly to him, pulled her roughly up on all fours. Bent his head
to the side of her neck, and held her there with his teeth as he exploded into
her. Bit down as the spasms took him, out of himself into a place where only
sensation existed. The world narrowed into just this, the feeling of emptying
himself into her, taking all of her.
    He came back to himself at last, collapsed on top of her,
pulled her to him and held her. She was breathing hard, almost sobbing, her
hair wrapped around her, over her, between them. He rolled to his back, turned
her to lie against him, brought his other arm around to hold her more tightly.
Lowered his face to the top of her head and kissed her there.
    “Did I hurt you?” he asked at last. “I didn’t mean to do
that. Are you all right?”
    She laughed shakily. “If I were any more all right, I’d have
burnt up, I think. That was so intense. I can’t . . . I can’t handle