Ty would have laughed under any other circumstances, but nothing about burying himself in Imogen against his bedroom wall made him want to laugh. He picked up speed, found a rhythm that had her groans coming in regular staccato bursts, one for each time he drove deep, no matter how fast he set the pace. It was hot as freaking hell and Ty rested his head against his arm, closing his eyes as he squeezed her hand beneath hers and just moved inside her, taking in the sound of her pleasure, enjoying the feel of her slick, welcoming body.

He sensed again when she was treading too close to an orgasm. Her breathing changed, her head started to shift back and forth, and she went up higher on her toes, like she was trying to escape the intensity of his thrusts.

If Imogen said she usually came only once, Ty wasn’t going to argue with that, or think he could somehow manage to drag more than one from her. Not their first time together. He would learn how to make her come repeatedly with knowledge of her body and her likes and dislikes, and that would take familiarity. He would act on the assumption she was only going to have one orgasm tonight, and if that was the case, he damn well wanted to have done everything he could to her before it happened.

He wanted her desperate, clinging, screaming, insensible, incoherent with pleasure, groaning and squirming and so turned on that she would agree to anything and would be hard-pressed to remember her own goddamn name.

Then, and only then, would he let her have the biggest, hottest, loudest orgasm of her entire life, where she scratched and clawed and begged and lost every thought she’d ever had from her logical little brain.

So Ty pulled completely out of her and stepped back, panting as she dropped onto the balls of her feet and stared at him in shock and disappointment. He was holding her hand against the wall, but she still sagged down a little.

“Why did you stop?” she asked, dropping her eyes to his erection. “You didn’t come. Did you?”

“No. No one is coming yet. I’m just getting started with you.”

CHAPTER NINE

THE man was trying to kill her.

There was no other explanation for taking her to the edge like that—twice, Imogen might add—and then just stopping. But she had no ability to protest, because it was clear from his words and the look on his face that he was dead serious. He was not finished with her, and she suspected she was going to get a lesson in drawing out pleasure as long as humanly possible.

He had already excited her more in half an hour than other men had in six months, so she just slumped against the wall and waited for him to take his next course of action. For a fleeting second, she thought she should contribute something, maybe suggest a position or two, but she dropped the thought immediately. He had a plan, or at least liked taking control, and she was perfectly content to be on the receiving end.