Page 77 of Want Me, Take Me, Haunt Me, Make Me

“God,” he muttered, half a curse and half a prayer, though she was the only divinity he could think of right then.

She pulled back, panting, and glanced up at him through dark eyelashes beaded with water. “We should move.”

Maxwell was too busy watching her lips to understand her words at first. He helped her up automatically, but her meaning didn’t get through to him until she turned to shut off the water. “Yes,” he said, and lifted Hazel off her feet for the second time in their acquaintance.

* * *

She got to wrap her arms around Maxwell’s neck this time, rather than lying across his shoulder, and he carried her with one of his own arms under her knees. The effect was probably classier than the cover of a Conan rip off, or it would have been if they hadn’t both been naked and wet. Maxwell’s substantial hard-on didn’t exactly turn the scene artistic either.

Then again, art was subjective.

Hazel laid her head against Maxwell’s shoulder and giggled as he strode out of the bathroom, letting herself feel softer emotions along with the lust. She laughed again as he stopped in the hall, clearly not having thought through his next steps, and cleared his throat. “Ah, bedroom? If you’d rather not, after—”

The consideration made her heart squeeze a little. “Bedroom,” she said. “It’s got the best wards, and honestly, if I’m going to sleep in there again, I need better memories.”

“Very happy to oblige,” he said, and bent his head to kiss her.

* * *

He managed to get the bedroom door open—none too smoothly, but he was beyond caring. If the doorknob hadn’t turned at his first clumsy attempt, Maxwell might well have kicked the door down or blasted it to splinters. Hazel’s presence in his arms would have been enough to drive him half mad with desire even if she’d been clothed and passive. Naked and eager, nuzzling against his neck, she was damned near fatal, even to a man of questionable mortality.

Hazel’s bed was close to the door, because God was merciful. A few steps brought Maxwell to its edge, and he started to lay Hazel down, but she shook her head. “Sit.”

“If you’d like,” he said, and perched on the side of the bed. That let Hazel settle nicely into his lap, one knee on each side of his legs, her hands on his shoulders for balance. Smiling, she leaned back just enough to look into his eyes.

“Comfortable?”

“I wouldn’t saythat,” Maxwell replied. He shifted his hips to emphasize the point, his stiff prick sliding against her silky curls, and then had to bite his lip to keep control. “But I have no complaints.”

Hazel gave him a bright, hot smile, her lips slightly swollen from either their kisses or her attention to him earlier. She rocked forward minutely to tease them both—and then stopped, dark brows drawing together.

Maxwell froze. “Too much?”

“No…” she said in a tone of evaluation that he found torturously arousing in itself. “But it could be before too long, or if I go too fast. Damn muscles.”

“We can stop,” he offered, sincere and desperately trying to keep reluctance out of his voice. Frustration was better—far better—than hurting her, but his body didn’t share his morals. He ached, and she was soclose, so hot and wet against him, just a few short motions away—

No.

He stayed still, waiting. Hazel shook her head almost immediately, though it felt like a year or so had gone by, and brushed her lips across his. “Give me a second,” she said, and swung herself off him. While her absence let Maxwell get a better grip on himself, figuratively speaking, he couldn’t restrain a low groan as she moved away.

There were compensatory joys, though, like watching the motion of her breasts as she walked and seeing her bend to open her nightstand drawer.

“You’re not insecure about…assistance, are you?” she asked.

“No.” The response was automatic—he almost didn’t remember whatinsecuremeant in the heat of the moment—and curiosity took a second to follow. “Whose?”

She chuckled, turning around with a slim chrome wand in one hand. “Ben Franklin’s, I guess. Or Edison’s.”

The device looked very different from the large cordedcontraptions he’d seen in grainy films as a young man, or in advertisements mysteriously promising to “furnish every woman with the essence of perpetual youth,” but Maxwell could guess its purpose. “Neither gentleman was to my tastes in life,” he said, stretching out a hand toward Hazel, “but they’re very welcome in spirit.”

Laughing, Hazel let him draw her back to his lap. She moved slowly as she straddled him again, settling herself with great care, as Maxwell almost held his breath in an attempt to stay calm. Soap from the shower blended with the intoxicating scent of her arousal.

“What can I do to help?” He wasn’t used to looking up at her, but their position settled his gaze generally at her neck, making Maxwell tip his head back to see Hazel’s face. It was just as lovely from that angle. “I take direction decently well, I believe.”

“I’ll test you on that. For now, just—hold still, I guess.” Another slight shift of her weight and she rose, grasping Maxwell’s cock and guiding the tip into her slick heat. She slowed down again to take him, though Maxwell thought that might have been less from injury and more from the desire to tease them both.

Certainly, it did the job. He felt each centimeter of Hazel’s descent, battled the urge to thrust up into her, and contented himself with grasping her hips once he was buried to the hilt. “Bloodyhell.”