Bitter Spirits
Page 80
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
His brain was barely working. He was in a singular savage mode, racing against his own drive to have her, and couldn’t process anything besides the basic mechanics it would take for his monstrous body to align with her petite one in the simplest way possible. He dropped his suspenders over both shoulders so he could shove his pants lower, struggled with the tin of Merry Widows in the bedside table drawer—nearly dropping it in his haste—and prepared to flip her onto her hands and knees, so he could take her while standing at the edge of the mattress.
“No.” She pressed the heel of one palm between her legs, as if to quench an ache—possibly the single most arousing sight he’d ever seen. “Like the postcard,” she demanded.
He tore his gaze from her hand. It took a moment for his dull brain to catch up. The postcard. She wanted to be on top—there was that damned control of hers. Hell, did she think he’d stop her?
“Yes, yes,” he murmured. “Fine idea. Let’s do that. Come here.”
He sat up on the bed, his back against the headboard, and helped her as she crawled to straddle his lap. Damp curls brushed across his balls, making his cock jump. He slipped fingers between her legs. Unbelievably wet. Warm. Swollen with need. Ready for him. He guided her down, and when she impaled herself on him, taking as much of his length as she could in one fierce movement, gasping loudly, he nearly lost his mind.
“Aida, Aida,” he said, a fervent prayer. A devotion.
She chased a frenetic rhythm, hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. It only made him harder. He helped himself to her body, rolling her nipples between his finger and thumb, tasting the sensitive skin beneath her jaw, memorizing the curve where her hips flared from her waist . . . brailling over her raised scars with his palms.
His eyes lingered over rose-adorned garters biting into her thighs, then followed the lines at the back of her stockings to the lightly scuffed soles of new shoes. Every so often, he slipped a thumb down where their bodies were joined and rubbed her stiff bud until she moaned and clenched around him so tightly he had to stop for fear he’d come before she did.
“That’s it, take me,” he praised. “Punish me.”
She gritted her teeth and cried out in frustration and he loved it. She was a goddess above him, hell-bent on conquering, making him pay with each rocking stroke of her beautiful body. He adored every bit of her: the gleam of sweat on her brow, the sounds of pleasure she was making, the scent of her sex.
It was far better than anything his debauched brain had ever imagined.
Her breath became ragged. Flesh smacked. Freckled breasts quivered and bounced hypnotically. The moment she faltered, thighs shaking with effort, he angled himself farther down on the cushion beneath her and took over, vigorously pounding up into her as she arched over him.
His mind emptied. He was nothing but a body serving to meet her pleasure. And when that pleasure finally gathered strength and crested, her eyes locked with his. The look on her face was so vulnerable and open, and God help him, somewhere in the back of his barbaric, dull mind, he thought: This one. Her. Only her. No one else.
Her eyes closed. A long, soulful wail broke from her mouth. She came so intensely, so ferociously, he was almost jealous. The absurdity of this thought was washed away by his own brutal need. His turn, now—thank God.
She was boneless, weightless, ready to collapse. “Not yet,” he said. “Hold on.” He lifted her up and down on his cock in time with the pumping of his hips, reviving her. She shuddered and squeezed around him again, another orgasm taking them both by surprise. And as she bucked in his arms, sobbing, every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation.
His pleasure crashed through him, surging forward. He held her hips down and came into her endlessly, a glorious, blinding moment of complete surrender that he felt in the base of his spine, the pads of his toes, the tips of his fingers.
When it faded, he was gasping for breath below her, muttering broken Swedish that he knew she couldn’t understand, but damned if he could reach for the words in English. Funny that his mind had trouble making the switch, when it was usually second nature.
Her head lolled against his neck. He stroked her hair as their hearts slowed, finally finding the right words in the right language, which he whispered against her cheek. “Everything I have is yours. My home, my body, my protection . . . my heart. All of me.”
One salty tear slid down her cheek. He captured it with a swipe of his tongue, and this started an avalanche of great, convulsive sobs. He didn’t ask why. Just folded his arms around her, pulling her into the rocky cave of his body, and waited for the crying to stop. And when it did, he held her until she fell asleep in his arms. Somewhere inside his blackened heart, he knew it would be the last time.
TWENTY-SEVEN
AIDA BARELY SAW WINTER THE REST OF THE WEEK. A FEAT, really—and an ironic one, at that. She was staying under his roof, sleeping in his bed, and yet she was never alone with him. He was gone when she woke every day. Sometimes he’d eat dinner at home, but by the time she’d rush off to do her show at Gris-Gris, then rush back afterward, he’d already be on his way out again. She waited up for him until the wee hours of the morning, but he never came to bed. On the third night, she found him sleeping in his mother’s old bedroom; he claimed he didn’t want to wake her when he got home.
Aida spent more time with Astrid, and with Bo. Good grief—even Mrs. Lin spent more time with her when she stopped by to check in and bring almond cookies.
“No.” She pressed the heel of one palm between her legs, as if to quench an ache—possibly the single most arousing sight he’d ever seen. “Like the postcard,” she demanded.
He tore his gaze from her hand. It took a moment for his dull brain to catch up. The postcard. She wanted to be on top—there was that damned control of hers. Hell, did she think he’d stop her?
“Yes, yes,” he murmured. “Fine idea. Let’s do that. Come here.”
He sat up on the bed, his back against the headboard, and helped her as she crawled to straddle his lap. Damp curls brushed across his balls, making his cock jump. He slipped fingers between her legs. Unbelievably wet. Warm. Swollen with need. Ready for him. He guided her down, and when she impaled herself on him, taking as much of his length as she could in one fierce movement, gasping loudly, he nearly lost his mind.
“Aida, Aida,” he said, a fervent prayer. A devotion.
She chased a frenetic rhythm, hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. It only made him harder. He helped himself to her body, rolling her nipples between his finger and thumb, tasting the sensitive skin beneath her jaw, memorizing the curve where her hips flared from her waist . . . brailling over her raised scars with his palms.
His eyes lingered over rose-adorned garters biting into her thighs, then followed the lines at the back of her stockings to the lightly scuffed soles of new shoes. Every so often, he slipped a thumb down where their bodies were joined and rubbed her stiff bud until she moaned and clenched around him so tightly he had to stop for fear he’d come before she did.
“That’s it, take me,” he praised. “Punish me.”
She gritted her teeth and cried out in frustration and he loved it. She was a goddess above him, hell-bent on conquering, making him pay with each rocking stroke of her beautiful body. He adored every bit of her: the gleam of sweat on her brow, the sounds of pleasure she was making, the scent of her sex.
It was far better than anything his debauched brain had ever imagined.
Her breath became ragged. Flesh smacked. Freckled breasts quivered and bounced hypnotically. The moment she faltered, thighs shaking with effort, he angled himself farther down on the cushion beneath her and took over, vigorously pounding up into her as she arched over him.
His mind emptied. He was nothing but a body serving to meet her pleasure. And when that pleasure finally gathered strength and crested, her eyes locked with his. The look on her face was so vulnerable and open, and God help him, somewhere in the back of his barbaric, dull mind, he thought: This one. Her. Only her. No one else.
Her eyes closed. A long, soulful wail broke from her mouth. She came so intensely, so ferociously, he was almost jealous. The absurdity of this thought was washed away by his own brutal need. His turn, now—thank God.
She was boneless, weightless, ready to collapse. “Not yet,” he said. “Hold on.” He lifted her up and down on his cock in time with the pumping of his hips, reviving her. She shuddered and squeezed around him again, another orgasm taking them both by surprise. And as she bucked in his arms, sobbing, every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation.
His pleasure crashed through him, surging forward. He held her hips down and came into her endlessly, a glorious, blinding moment of complete surrender that he felt in the base of his spine, the pads of his toes, the tips of his fingers.
When it faded, he was gasping for breath below her, muttering broken Swedish that he knew she couldn’t understand, but damned if he could reach for the words in English. Funny that his mind had trouble making the switch, when it was usually second nature.
Her head lolled against his neck. He stroked her hair as their hearts slowed, finally finding the right words in the right language, which he whispered against her cheek. “Everything I have is yours. My home, my body, my protection . . . my heart. All of me.”
One salty tear slid down her cheek. He captured it with a swipe of his tongue, and this started an avalanche of great, convulsive sobs. He didn’t ask why. Just folded his arms around her, pulling her into the rocky cave of his body, and waited for the crying to stop. And when it did, he held her until she fell asleep in his arms. Somewhere inside his blackened heart, he knew it would be the last time.
TWENTY-SEVEN
AIDA BARELY SAW WINTER THE REST OF THE WEEK. A FEAT, really—and an ironic one, at that. She was staying under his roof, sleeping in his bed, and yet she was never alone with him. He was gone when she woke every day. Sometimes he’d eat dinner at home, but by the time she’d rush off to do her show at Gris-Gris, then rush back afterward, he’d already be on his way out again. She waited up for him until the wee hours of the morning, but he never came to bed. On the third night, she found him sleeping in his mother’s old bedroom; he claimed he didn’t want to wake her when he got home.
Aida spent more time with Astrid, and with Bo. Good grief—even Mrs. Lin spent more time with her when she stopped by to check in and bring almond cookies.
