Bitter Spirits
Page 52
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But he wanted more.
He withdrew his hand for a moment to give himself better access. Shifted his weight and hushed her complaining moan as he eased her silky tap pants down. They matched the color of her nipples, peachy and golden, trimmed in lace. He leaned up on one elbow and slipped them over her knees. They tangled around the heels of her shoes. She laughed, a little breathless, until he finally got the wretched things off.
But when he went to push her gown up her legs she sat up and slapped her hands over his. “No,” she said, panicked. “I don’t want you looking at my hips.”
“What?” He could barely get the word out. She might as well have said “I hate bacon,” because who in their right mind hates bacon? No one, that’s who. Why wouldn’t she want to let him see her hips?
“My scars,” she clarified.
“What?” he said again.
“My lancet scars. I don’t want you to see them. Please, Winter.”
Dear God. She’d scarred herself? He shouldn’t be surprised. God only knew how many times she’d cut herself. Several times a night for the last couple of years? Of course she had scars. But—
“Do you not see the gash around my bad eye?” he asked.
“That’s different. I’m not ready for anyone to see mine.”
Why this smarted, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to let it spoil things. He pulled his hands out from under hers and shifted them to her inner thighs. “I’ll keep my eyes closed,” he lied as he urged her legs apart.
With her hands holding her gown over her curving hips, propped up on her elbows, she watched him as he kissed the inside of one knee, then the other. The edge of one garter, then the other. The slippery inside of one slender freckled thigh, then the other.
“What are you doing?” she said with a look of astonishment in her eyes.
“I just want to taste you a little.” His gaze roamed over more of her beautifully freckled skin, a nest of golden red brown curls, and the glistening pink flesh below. Luxuriously, gloriously wet, and all for him.
He pushed her dress up above her sex while she stubbornly clutched the loose fabric of her gown over her hips. “You . . . I . . . no one’s ever . . .” she tried to say.
No one had? Not those two idiot lovers of hers? This thrilled him to no end. Spurred on, he stuck his nose into her curls and breathed in deeply, groaning with pleasure at her heady female scent. He gave her a long, lazy lick and she gasped. Then he set his lips to her and drew her delicate, swollen flesh into his mouth.
She flopped back against the bed and said, “God, yes,” to the ceiling.
He kissed. He suckled. He licked.
She moaned. She panted. She swore.
But nothing happened. He tried slow and fast, soft and hard, side-to-side flicks—he tried every trick he knew. She wasn’t nervous anymore. Seemed to be enjoying it. Was certainly moaning loud enough and twisting beneath his mouth. Still extraordinarily wet. Most women he’d tried this on had no trouble coming. Most women he’d bedded came—period. Except Paulina, but he refused to conjure her face at this moment.
He thought of Aida’s confession about her past lovers, implying she didn’t enjoy the encounters. It wasn’t a leap to assume she didn’t climax with them. But she certainly wasn’t frigid. Anything but. A wildcat on the outside and inside—he’d bet his life on it.
All women were different. He just needed to recalibrate his efforts.
Keeping his mouth where it was, he slid one finger inside her. Christ. So tight and slick and petal-soft. She inhaled sharply, then cried out, “Yes, God . . . please.”
Much better.
He stroked her on the inside until she widened her legs welcomingly. When he added a second finger, she began shivering and shaking so hard, he nearly lost his mind. Forgetting herself, she released her dress and grabbed his head, fingers diving into his hair. She tried to pull him closer, rubbing herself against his mouth, as if this would alleviate the tension building in her trembling thighs.
She was wild. Beyond shame. Beyond anxiety.
All his.
When her hips swayed off the mattress, he laid his arm across her lower belly to give her something to rock against. Then he crooked his fingers and rubbed the small, spongy patch of skin he found inside her as she tightened fiercely around his fingers. Aha!
“Oh, Winter. Oh, God. Oh, Winter.”
That’s right, he thought, drunk on power. One and the same.
Her arms fell to her sides, gripping the bedcovers. She was very close. He slowed his pace to tease her, draw it out.
For the briefest moment, big eyes looked down at him in bewilderment.
She turned one cheek to the mattress and broke apart, crying out in long, wavering sobs.
SEVENTEEN
AIDA LAY IN A DAZE, UNABLE TO MOVE, EVEN AS WINTER TRAILED three slow kisses between her breasts and shifted to her side. He nestled a leg between hers, and she felt his arousal, firm and hot against her thigh. Something was going to have to be done about that . . . in a second, when she could actually lift her head. When her limbs didn’t feel like they weighed a thousand pounds and the center of her wasn’t melting into the mattress.
How in God’s name had he learned to do that? Intellectually, she knew people did do that, of course—the ancient Romans, probably. The French, definitely. The women who posed for pornographic photographs that graced the postcards in Winter’s study certainly seemed fond of providing the service to men. No woman she’d ever known had mentioned anyone doing it.
He withdrew his hand for a moment to give himself better access. Shifted his weight and hushed her complaining moan as he eased her silky tap pants down. They matched the color of her nipples, peachy and golden, trimmed in lace. He leaned up on one elbow and slipped them over her knees. They tangled around the heels of her shoes. She laughed, a little breathless, until he finally got the wretched things off.
But when he went to push her gown up her legs she sat up and slapped her hands over his. “No,” she said, panicked. “I don’t want you looking at my hips.”
“What?” He could barely get the word out. She might as well have said “I hate bacon,” because who in their right mind hates bacon? No one, that’s who. Why wouldn’t she want to let him see her hips?
“My scars,” she clarified.
“What?” he said again.
“My lancet scars. I don’t want you to see them. Please, Winter.”
Dear God. She’d scarred herself? He shouldn’t be surprised. God only knew how many times she’d cut herself. Several times a night for the last couple of years? Of course she had scars. But—
“Do you not see the gash around my bad eye?” he asked.
“That’s different. I’m not ready for anyone to see mine.”
Why this smarted, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to let it spoil things. He pulled his hands out from under hers and shifted them to her inner thighs. “I’ll keep my eyes closed,” he lied as he urged her legs apart.
With her hands holding her gown over her curving hips, propped up on her elbows, she watched him as he kissed the inside of one knee, then the other. The edge of one garter, then the other. The slippery inside of one slender freckled thigh, then the other.
“What are you doing?” she said with a look of astonishment in her eyes.
“I just want to taste you a little.” His gaze roamed over more of her beautifully freckled skin, a nest of golden red brown curls, and the glistening pink flesh below. Luxuriously, gloriously wet, and all for him.
He pushed her dress up above her sex while she stubbornly clutched the loose fabric of her gown over her hips. “You . . . I . . . no one’s ever . . .” she tried to say.
No one had? Not those two idiot lovers of hers? This thrilled him to no end. Spurred on, he stuck his nose into her curls and breathed in deeply, groaning with pleasure at her heady female scent. He gave her a long, lazy lick and she gasped. Then he set his lips to her and drew her delicate, swollen flesh into his mouth.
She flopped back against the bed and said, “God, yes,” to the ceiling.
He kissed. He suckled. He licked.
She moaned. She panted. She swore.
But nothing happened. He tried slow and fast, soft and hard, side-to-side flicks—he tried every trick he knew. She wasn’t nervous anymore. Seemed to be enjoying it. Was certainly moaning loud enough and twisting beneath his mouth. Still extraordinarily wet. Most women he’d tried this on had no trouble coming. Most women he’d bedded came—period. Except Paulina, but he refused to conjure her face at this moment.
He thought of Aida’s confession about her past lovers, implying she didn’t enjoy the encounters. It wasn’t a leap to assume she didn’t climax with them. But she certainly wasn’t frigid. Anything but. A wildcat on the outside and inside—he’d bet his life on it.
All women were different. He just needed to recalibrate his efforts.
Keeping his mouth where it was, he slid one finger inside her. Christ. So tight and slick and petal-soft. She inhaled sharply, then cried out, “Yes, God . . . please.”
Much better.
He stroked her on the inside until she widened her legs welcomingly. When he added a second finger, she began shivering and shaking so hard, he nearly lost his mind. Forgetting herself, she released her dress and grabbed his head, fingers diving into his hair. She tried to pull him closer, rubbing herself against his mouth, as if this would alleviate the tension building in her trembling thighs.
She was wild. Beyond shame. Beyond anxiety.
All his.
When her hips swayed off the mattress, he laid his arm across her lower belly to give her something to rock against. Then he crooked his fingers and rubbed the small, spongy patch of skin he found inside her as she tightened fiercely around his fingers. Aha!
“Oh, Winter. Oh, God. Oh, Winter.”
That’s right, he thought, drunk on power. One and the same.
Her arms fell to her sides, gripping the bedcovers. She was very close. He slowed his pace to tease her, draw it out.
For the briefest moment, big eyes looked down at him in bewilderment.
She turned one cheek to the mattress and broke apart, crying out in long, wavering sobs.
SEVENTEEN
AIDA LAY IN A DAZE, UNABLE TO MOVE, EVEN AS WINTER TRAILED three slow kisses between her breasts and shifted to her side. He nestled a leg between hers, and she felt his arousal, firm and hot against her thigh. Something was going to have to be done about that . . . in a second, when she could actually lift her head. When her limbs didn’t feel like they weighed a thousand pounds and the center of her wasn’t melting into the mattress.
How in God’s name had he learned to do that? Intellectually, she knew people did do that, of course—the ancient Romans, probably. The French, definitely. The women who posed for pornographic photographs that graced the postcards in Winter’s study certainly seemed fond of providing the service to men. No woman she’d ever known had mentioned anyone doing it.
