Heart of Obsidian

of it, while seeing no reason to pick it over any other. Now he realized there were two very good reasons—it gave the male free access to the female
and
near total control of the sexual act.
    Kaleb liked control in all things.
    “Sahara.” A graze of teeth on her neck that made her shiver. “Wake up.”
    She stretched sinuously against him, body pliant, no fear or surprise in her at their intimate entanglement . . . only an increasing dampness in the lace that pressed against his thigh. “How does this work?” It was a sleepy question, her foot lifting to rub over the back of his calf.
    Kaleb rifled through his image files to find one that showed her exactly what he wanted. “Like this.”
    Sahara whimpered but pulled off the T-shirt in silent acquiescence. Throwing it aside, she brushed her hair off her face, then curled her arm over her shoulder until her fingers brushed his nape, the charms on her bracelet cool against his skin. It left her entire body exposed for him to touch, for him to possess, her breasts lifted lush and high on her chest for his private viewing. His body rock-hard, he stroked one hand over the sweetly sensitive skin of her thigh before pulling it up and back to hook over his own, his fingers pressing into the delicate flesh.
    His other hand he curled gently around her throat.
    “Are you ready?” he asked, though he could feel her molten stickiness against his thigh.
    “Yes.”
    “Show me.”
    “I—how?”
    “Use your own fingers.”
    Color pulsed under her skin.
    “No taboos, no rules here,” he said, wanting her with him through every step of this erotic exploration. “This is our place, our time.”
Finally
it was their time.
    Sahara wet her lips, eyes of midnight blue drenched in passion. “Our bed.”
    Squeezing the base of his penis with a telekinetic ring, he reined in the driving urge to thrust inside her. “And my Sahara.” Always his.
    Sahara shivered and moved her hand down the concave slope of her stomach to splay her fingers over her navel. When she hesitated, he kissed her throat again. “No taboos.”
    Her hand ventured lower, the tips of her fingers disappearing under the creamy lace of her panties. Breath turning shallow at the visual stimuli that hit every single one of his pleasure centers, he watched her hand move under the lace as she stroked herself. His abdomen was rigid, his chest tight, the pleasure almost pain by the time she withdrew her fingers, the digits slick and shiny.
    “Make me yours, Kaleb.”
    The throaty request, falling from lips plump and wet, snapped the ring of black ice. Slipping his hand under her thigh after repositioning his own, he spread her further and, tearing away her panties with a negligible use of his Tk, pushed inside her. She was tight. He was slow, deliberate. Moaning, Sahara dug her nails into his nape, her breasts flushed, her nipples lush beads he wanted to roll against his tongue.
    Since he couldn’t indulge in the latter, he covered one of her breasts with a telekinetic hand, stroking down to squeeze her nipple. She clenched around him, her wetness molten. It took Kaleb’s brain a microsecond to make the connection. Giving her neglected breast the same treatment, he rubbed at her clitoris with a phantom finger, while never faltering in the slow, steady rhythm of sexual intercourse that had his testicles drawn up tight against his body, the pain exquisite.
    Sensing her body begin to tighten, he parted her labia using telekinesis and squeezed her clitoris.
    “Kaleb!” Sahara convulsed around his erection, her entire body shaking with the strength of her orgasm.
    Kaleb had intended to continue the slow pace that was an exercise in erotic control, but his brain short-circuited at the possessive clenching of Sahara’s intimate muscles. Pushing her onto her front, her face turned sideways on the pillow, he fisted one hand tightly in her hair and slammed into her in a brutally deep and fast rhythm, her body tight and slick and of the woman who was and had always been his. It felt like madness, creeping red on the horizon.
    Hurting her,
the part of him that lived in the void screamed,
I’m hurting her!
    His muscles locked, his mind trying to force his body to pull out of her and failing. He didn’t want to break the rawness of the connection, her skin as sweat-slick as his own, her body a hot, silken fist. “I’m hurting you,” he managed to ground out.
    “No, you’re not!” Punching her fist on the