Bitter Spirits Part 18

Because you are scared of me. "Because we need to get used to each other."

"Maybe that's wise," she said. "I mean, if you think so."

Enough of this awkwardness. "Come here. I want to hold you." He pulled her sideways onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her, then spoke to her in a hushed voice. "h.e.l.lo."

"h.e.l.lo."

So warm. He stroked a palm across her back and felt tense muscles relax against his thighs. "This is better."

"Yes. Much better." Her fingers fluttered over his bow tie. She fiddled with the knot, then glanced up at his face and smiled. All her lipstick was gone, wiped away on her napkin at dinner. Now he could see every freckle on her lips, including the one near the right corner of her mouth that he liked so well.

He spoke without thinking, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. "I swear on my life, you are the loveliest thing I've ever seen."

She softened in his arms. He held her closer, running a hand down her bare arm, feeling chills race down his own arm in response. His mouth brushed her face. He kept himself in check, slowly relaxing, enjoying the weight of her body. Grateful for it.

"Please kiss me, Winter," she said against his cheek. "Or I'll be forced to attack you again."

There she was. His Aida.

He complied, trying to go gentle, but her mouth was so hot and eager, and her hands were slipping over his shoulders. His c.o.c.k stirred, pulsing to life against her leg. She twisted in his arms and pressed closer.

He forgot all about the tense start. "C'mere," he murmured against her lips. "Like this." He prodded one of her legs across his until she was straddling his lap. "Oh yes. That's better." He slouched lower and gathered her closer, until her gown hiked up. Soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against his chest as her mouth returned to his. His hands slid up the back of her thighs. He stuck his index fingers beneath the tops of her stockings, under her garters. Two fingers. Three. He wanted to rip them off. And he almost did when her hips s.h.i.+fted and her soft heat covered his c.o.c.k.

"Oh," she said in a high voice. He extracted his roaming fingers from her stockings and pulled her down more firmly, fitting himself along her s.e.x, nothing but a few thin layers of fabric between them. "O-oh," she said louder.

His thoughts exactly.

He gathered her closer, thrusting up against her heat. She rocked in reply, rubbing herself against him. Christ, he was hard as iron. He thrust harder against her, drunk with pleasure, craving more . . . wanting to be inside her. She flinched. "Oww."

He pulled away.

"I'm sensitive, sorry." She let out a little breathy laugh, then settled back down and rubbed against him again, softer, studying his face.

He pushed her bangs away from her forehead and kissed the exposed skin there. "Never apologize." He was the one who couldn't control himself. If he didn't get her off his lap, he'd be inside her in another minute. "Hold on to me." He secured her against him with an arm around the small of her back, then pushed off the sofa, taking her with him. Her weight felt good in his arms. He walked her across the suite and climbed onto the bed with her clinging to him. She made a noise when he set her down on the mattress.

Anxiety reappeared in her eyes.

"I'm just going to touch you a little," he rea.s.sured her, kissing her softly. "Yes?"

She nodded and kissed him again. Her hands slid up his chest. "Can we take this off?" she said, tugging a b.u.t.ton on his vest.

He blinked at her in surprise. "Yes."

"It will make me feel more comfortable," she said defensively, as if he was going to protest, then, in a softer voice, "I want to see you. Again," she added with a coy smile.

G.o.d only knew why, but whatever she wanted, she could have. If she asked him to sign over the Pierce-Arrow to her, he'd do it in a heartbeat. He fumbled with the top b.u.t.ton on his vest while she started on the bottom b.u.t.ton; they met in the middle. She pushed the vest over his shoulders, then his suspenders.

"No need to rush," he said, untying his bow tie under the wingtip collar points of his formal s.h.i.+rt, which tiny fingers were already busy unb.u.t.toning. He yanked s.h.i.+rttails out of his pants with one hand while she struggled with his cuff link on the other.

"How?" she asked.

He showed her the mechanism, and together they unfastened them. She kissed him as he pocketed his cuff links and shrugged out of his s.h.i.+rt. He tossed it behind his back. Warm hands slithered up the front of his unders.h.i.+rt. s.h.i.+very pleasure blanketed his skin. She lifted the cotton and peered at him. He watched her gaze follow her stroking hand down the line of dark hair bisecting his stomach, down to the intrusive bulge of his c.o.c.k straining the fly of his pants.

Her mouth opened with a garbled noise.

He could only imagine what she was thinking. Jesus-it looked lewd and mammoth, even to his eyes.

"Oh my." Her eyes tilted up to his. One corner of her mouth curled.

Well.

"Ignore that," he said. Then added, "For now."

"I don't think I can."

"Sure you can-I do, every day. Especially around you." He halted her reaching hand. "But I can't if you touch me." Christ! Was he really stopping her? He had to, or he'd be finished before they even started, and both of them would be embarra.s.sed. "Hold that thought, and just let me . . ." What? Possibilities crowded his mind, but he pushed them away for one specific starting place, first conjured during dinner, when it was all he could do not to take a bite out of her shoulders. Her dress was held up by golden cords tied into draping bows at the tops of her shoulders. He tugged one to loosen it. A second tug, and the entire right side of her bodice dropped to reveal one pert breast.

His mouth went dry.

Her freckles were lighter here, but they dusted every inch of her skin. They even covered her nipple, which was high and small and peach, jauntily standing at attention. He cupped the lush weight of her breast in one hand. A scant palmful-not too big, not too small. Just right. Encouraged by a moan, he stroked her nipple with his thumb and felt her shudder. It did him in. He hastily untied the cord on her other shoulder and bared her to the waist.

His brain emptied as he gazed at her, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the elegant ridge of clavicle. "G.o.dd.a.m.n," he murmured. "You're beautiful." He kissed her mouth and trailed his lips across her jaw, urging her back onto the mattress. "Beautiful," he repeated, drawn to the rise and fall of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Stretching out next to her, he captured one dusky peak with his mouth, worrying it with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.

"Oh . . . yes," she mumbled, as the warm pressure of her hand clasping the back of his neck held him in place. She liked it. He felt like a jockey jumping a hurdle, breathless and triumphant. His c.o.c.k kicked inside his pants, as if to cheer him on.

He released her flesh with a soft pop and licked his way to her other breast, giving it the same treatment as he rolled the now-wet abandoned nipple between his thumb and finger. She bowed her back and moaned so loudly, goose b.u.mps rose over his arms. He plucked harder, sucked harder, savoring the taste of her skin as he pressed himself against her soft thigh like a schoolboy, desperate for any sort of relief.

His mouth returned to hers as his hand wandered lower, over her soft belly, half covered with her fallen gown. He went lower, running the heel of his palm over the hilly apex between her legs. "I just want to touch you," he a.s.sured her in a gravelly voice.

"I . . ." she began, mumbling something incoherent.

He slipped his hand down her stocking, to the inside of her knee, then back up her inner thigh. He stilled halfway to his goal.

Just above her garter, her thigh was shockingly slick. He took a ragged breath and went higher. Slippery, everywhere. "Christ alive," he whispered in amazement. He hadn't even touched her!

"Oh, G.o.d," she said, as if she were ashamed. Her cheeks reddened beneath the freckles.

"Aida, you are . . . Jesus-you are a miracle." He kissed her mouth to quell her unspoken protests and slid his hand to the silk between her legs. "Soaked," he reported in amazement, as if she didn't know. He plundered beneath the thin fabric. Greedy fingers glided along one slick fold bordered in damp curls, then the other. And without any trouble at all, his thumb found her taut bud between them, sweet and ripe and stiffening beneath his touch.

She cried out and bucked against his hand.

A mad sort of joy rose up inside him.

"Yes, you were right," he murmured against her ear. "You are sensitive. What if I rub you like this?"

Her breath hitched, then a garbled string of words came out of her mouth in a rush as she grabbed his arm. She squirmed. Cursed. Her hips jerked this way and that as he rubbed and circled and flicked, experimenting . . . listening to her response in the pace of her breathing, the sounds she was making in the back of her throat, the intensity of her grip.

But he wanted more.

He withdrew his hand for a moment to give himself better access. s.h.i.+fted 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 G.o.d. She'd scarred herself? He shouldn't be surprised. G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 s.e.x 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, "G.o.d, 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 a.s.sume 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, G.o.d . . . please."

Much better.

He stroked her on the inside until she widened her legs welcomingly. When he added a second finger, she began s.h.i.+vering 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, G.o.d. 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s and s.h.i.+fted 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 G.o.d'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 p.o.r.nographic 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.

Perhaps she was just lucky. Very, very lucky. She certainly felt that way, with Winter's face hovering over hers. A mussed lock of hair rakishly fell in a dark slash over one eye. "Still with me?" he asked.

She squeezed his leg between her knees.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes," she croaked. "I'm just . . ."

"Yes?"

"My G.o.d."

He smiled down at her, clearly pleased with himself. "You," he said between kisses, "are a joy"-she tasted s.e.x on his lips-"to satisfy."

"And I am satisfied. Was. Am. Utterly. I . . . loved it."

"I could tell. You are vocal."

"I couldn't help it."

"I know."

"Oh, G.o.d," she murmured. "You think anyone heard?"