“God, yes,” I whispered. “More.”
His hands stopped at my hips and I heard the sound of fabric ripping, then felt my panties give way. Something flew over my head and landed to my right. I turned my head, the snow scraping my nipples painfully as I moved, and saw the panties, bright red, a vulgar flash of color in the pristine snow. He inhaled sharply, his gloved hands running up over the length of my back, over my ass and down. It was so good. The leather against my skin felt dirty and dangerous. I tried to move, to push my body against him, to get more contact.
“Don’t move,” he growled, pushing me down hard.
My nipples felt raw and painfully aroused, the snow numbing them to the point that they were starting to throb.
“Please,” I whispered.
He slapped my ass, and my body jolted at the contact, the leather meeting my skin with a loud “crack!”
“Oh, fuck!” I shouted.
“We’ll get to that,” he said. “Shut up. Remember? I like to delay your gratification.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Okay.”
His fingers probed, each thick digit stroking through my folds, delving into my core and circling my clit, pinching the swollen nub until I was begging him for more.
“Please, Thomas,” I pleaded.
Crack! He smacked my ass again, and I could hear his breathing now, labored and hoarse, could feel the hot stream of his breath as it cut through the cold and glanced off the surface of my skin.
His arms hooked under my torso and he lifted me, twisting me slightly so that he could see my breasts. The cold sea air felt almost warm on my frozen skin, my nipples prickled at the sensation.
“Look at yourself,” he commanded, and I did.
My breasts were an angry pink, the tips tender and inflamed from cold.
“Beautiful,” he said, cupping my breast, two fingers pinching the frigid nipple painfully. He licked his lips, and gifted me with a sly smile, before he bent his head and sucked one nipple into his mouth.
It felt like a furnace had erupted around my breast. His mouth sucked greedily, roughly, his tongue and teeth making a meal of my flesh. I gasped as pleasure raked through my body. My knees buckled and I fell back against him, but he caught me with those gloved hands, one at my waist, the other racing over my ass and between my thighs. He impaled me, two fingers sinking into my wet cunt to lift me back up so his tongue could continue torturing my breast.
I moaned, my orgasm coiling tightly as his fingers worked inside me. In and out, slicking over my clit and back inside again, his thumb joining the routine, urging me on. I was so close, so close, my muscles clenched around his fingers as I strained for release. So close…
He withdrew, his fingers trailing my wetness over my thighs as he yanked me upright and threw my body over the boulder.
“Oh, god,” I sobbed into the snow.
Crack! He slapped my ass, and then again. Crack! So hard that I gasped and tears stung the corners of my eyes.
He bent over me, the warmth of his body covering mine. He whispered in my ear, “You are exquisite,” he said, as his hands ran down the length of my body, tracing over the curve of my waist and hips. “Your ass is the loveliest shade of bright pink right now.”
My backside throbbed at his words, the skin burned and tingled. I felt more vulnerable and exposed than I ever had before and yet I didn’t care. All I wanted was more.
“But it’s a deeper pink I’m after,” he purred. His fingers walked lower, feathering over my folds so softly that I arched my back, and strained towards his hands, seeking contact.
“What a greedy little cunt you have.” He laughed. “Look how she begs for me.”
His words brought a picture to my mind, and my cheeks flamed. How must I look right now? Half naked in the snow, my body sprawled in front of him, my ass wiggling in the air.
“Oh, god,” I whimpered.
“He can’t help you now, darling,” Thomas said as he pushed himself upright. I heard the sound of leather gloves being shucked, the metallic clink of his belt as it released and the rasp of his zipper as he lowered his jeans.
I held my breath and bit my lip when I heard him groan, as those deft fingers fondled me at last, bare skin to bare skin. I melted in his hands, warm and pliant, my pussy yielding to him gratefully as I felt the hot blunt head of his cock nudge against my opening.
“This won’t be gentle,” he said, a sharp edge to his tone, as he palmed my ass, his thumbs separating, pulling me open to him.
“Good,” I whispered, my chest heaving with anticipation.
He slammed into me—one long stroke that seared a hot tunnel of pleasure through my core and straight up my spine. I cried out, my fingers digging in the snow. He bent over me and caught my hands, twisting my arms behind my back. Using my restraint to anchor his position, he fucked me mercilessly. My mind emptied; nothing was left but this feeling. Nothing but him. There was no cold, the frigid effects of the snow receded from my awareness. There was no boulder, the rough surface of the rock didn’t register on my skin. There was no ocean, no soft sounds of gently lapping waves. There was only Thomas. Thomas’s voice, murmuring words of desire and intent. Thomas’s hands, holding me down. Thomas’s thighs, slapping against my own. Thomas’s cock pumping into me over and over, hot and hard, plunging into my cunt, penetrating me deeper with every inch, body and soul. I reveled, letting my consciousness succumb to the onslaught of sensation.
This isn’t just sex, my heart said, so clearly that I almost thought I’d heard it aloud. My trance was broken, and I felt a sob building in my chest, even as my orgasm coiled tightly in my belly. Even this, my heart said, even this isn’t just sex. Because it’s him, it will always be more with him. So much more. You know it.
“Yes,” I said aloud, the word catching in my throat as Thomas pistoned into me. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He released my arms and lifted me, holding me against him, one arm cradling my frigid breasts. The warmth was so astonishing, I jolted. His fingers found my clit, stroking gently over the sensitive bud as his cock worked inside me. He clutched me to him.
“It’ll never be just sex for us,” he whispered in my ear. “Tell me you know that, Jane. Tell me.”
“Yes,” I moaned as the orgasm crashed through me, my inner walls constricting and fisting around his cock as he continued to ram into me.
“Again,” he said. One hand gripped my shoulder and pushed down as he fucked upward, his hips grinding harshly.
“Yes,” I said.
“Again.” His fingers massaged my clit, sending another spiral of pleasure crashing through my limbs. I came again, my pussy sucking at his cock as his tongue devastated my mouth.
“Yes,” I gasped when his mouth released mine.
“Again,” he demanded, his gaze boring holes into me.
“Yes,” I whispered, lost in the deep blue storm of his eyes.
“This is us,” he said. “This is us. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand.”
He took my mouth again, and we fell together against the boulder. He came apart, exploding inside me with one final thrust, moaning against my lips, as the climax tore through him. He held me to him, so tight I thought my flesh would bruise in his arms. It wasn’t tight enough.
He was right, this was us. This uncanny ability we had to recognize the need in each other, and fill it. To push and challenge each other when it was needed and to soothe with words and touches when it all became too much.
“This is us,” he breathed against my cheek. “Just this. No props, no games—”
“No secrets,” I whispered, and felt his arms tighten just a little more.
5
I felt like I was going to my execution. Okay, maybe execution was being a bit dramatic. But I was definitely dreading what was waiting for me at the end of the hall. I’d made a proclamation on the beach: no secrets. Now I had to back that shit up, and my stomach was flip-flopping at the thought.
&n
bsp; There was a fire blazing in the stone fireplace in the center of the living room. The lights were dimmed, and starlight was twinkling on the water that was just visible on the other side of the great bank of windows. I padded into the room, bare toes squishing into the deep pile of the carpet. We’d taken a shower when we came back inside and afterwards, Thomas left me alone as he attended to dinner. I’d wrapped myself in a fluffy robe, piled my wet hair on top of my head and forgone any makeup. I had a feeling I’d just be crying it all off anyhow.
“Ah, there’s my angel,” he said, emerging from behind the bar at the far end of the room. His hair was wet too, tumbling over his forehead in unruly waves. He wore jeans and a crisp blue dress shirt, unbuttoned to mid chest, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. “You look lovely. The flush of our lovemaking still colors your cheeks. Or maybe that was the cold. Or my hand.” He winked at me. I giggled and walked towards him. My cheeks were definitely still flushed. “I’ve found their wine stash, come help me decide.” He smiled and beckoned me to the bar, setting bottles up on the counter as I sat on a stool. “I’ve got dinner in the oven, so barring any unforeseen power outages we should have a lovely steak pie in about forty-five minutes.”
“Oh, that sounds yummy. I wonder what’s in it?”
“I peeked under the crust,” he said conspiratorially. “And was able to spy steak, mushrooms, onion, a bit of carrot and flecks of green things that I assume are herbs.”
“Yep, sounds like a steak pie alright.” I laughed. “The herbs are for flavor,” I whispered loudly.
“You know, I’ve heard the chefs these days are fond of the things.”
“Yeah,” I said. Leaning my elbows on the counter, I rested my chin in my hands. “It’s a new trend, adding flavor to the food. Not sure it’ll catch on, though.”
“Probably just a fad,” he said, biting back a smile. He snatched the corkscrew from the counter, flipped open the knife, pared the foil from a bottle, then twisted the screw deeply into the cork, pulling the length of it from the bottle’s neck with one fluid movement.
“That. Was fucking sexy. Do it again,” I said. “I like when you get all James Bond-y.”
“At your service,” he said, bowing slightly. He nodded at the bottles. “Choose your victims.”
I swept the three bottles closest to me forward and lined them up for him.
“Have a care! There’s enough alcohol there to numb a monk.”
“Oh, I’m not going to drink it all. I just like to watch your hands. We can pour the extra in the ocean for all I care.”
“That’s alcohol abuse.” He gasped with mock offense.
“Oh, my apologies. Far be it from me to be unkind to this,” I said. Reaching for the bottle he’d just opened, I turned it to read the label. My breath hitched and I swallowed hard. “Tom…”
“Yes, darling?”
“This is a 2009 Château Petrus.”
“It is.”
“This wine is like four thousand dollars a bottle.”
“Right again.”
“We can’t drink this!”
“You don’t like it? I’ll open something else. Be a love and toss it out the window, would you?”
I set the bottle down with a clatter and scrambled around the counter, crashing my body into his with all the force that I felt in my heart, my arms tightening around him like a vice.
“Hey, what’s this?” he said, gathering me into him. I shook against his chest, hot tears welling in my eyes. “Darling, what is it? Really, if you don’t like it that’s alright. I think I saw something in a box in the refrigerator, we could have that instead.”
“Shut up,” I said, laughing as fat wet drops tumbled from my eyes. “I’m not drinking that pink piss, and I won’t let you either.”
“Oh,” he said. Lifting my chin, he wiped the tears from my cheeks. “No need to cry, no one’s drinking piss tonight. I’m not that kinky.”
“Oh my god!” I said, pushing at his chest. “Gross, seriously gross.”
He pulled me back against him and kissed my nose, my cheek, my lips. I melted into his arms and let him hold me, caress me, cherish me.
“You’re so romantic,” I said, sighing when he released me. “So sweet and thoughtful, and just wonderful.”
He squinted at me, and grimaced. “I’m talking about piss and you’re calling me romantic. I’m starting to suspect you are just very easy to please.”
“No.” I laughed. “You know what I mean. Besides, I brought up piss first.”
“You did, you deviant. That’s true.”
“I just mean, all of this.” I gestured to the room. “The food, the fire, the wine. And you, just you. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. You make me feel special,” I said, suddenly feeling foolish. My fingers found the sash of my robe and knotted the fabric tightly.
“That’s because you are,” he said. His hands caught mine, pulling my fingers from the sash. He brought them to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the tips.
“See,” I said. “That’s it. Right there. You’re like Prince Charming or something.”
“From James Bond to Prince Charming in less than five minutes.” He let go of my hands and leaned over me to coax a wine glass from the rack above my head, then filled it with Château Petrus and handed me the glass. “You flatter me.”
“No, it’s the truth,” I said, taking the glass from him. “If I’m special then you are too. None of my friends’ boyfriends know anything about books or food or wine. And their idea of a great date is a round of shots and a double order of everything nachos down at the sports bar…” I took a sip of the wine. “And oh my god this is amazing,” I said, taking another sip. The wine exploded in my mouth, layers of fruit and spice and dark chocolate. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the counter, letting the flavors dance over my tongue.
My eyes flew open and I jolted upright. “I just called you my boyfriend.” I slapped a hand over my mouth as wine dribbled down my chin. I’d forgotten to swallow before I spoke. Well that’s a promising start to the evening, buttercup. Woo him with your dainty manners and your clingy labels.
He stepped into me, peeled my hand from my face and brought it to his lips. Slurping my fingers into his mouth, he sucked the wine from my skin. I quivered at the contact. His mouth was warm. His tongue slid like silk over my fingertips and they tingled in response. “An excellent vintage,” he said, returning my hand and smacking his lips loudly. “Well worth the expense.” He sat back against the counter opposite me and picked up his glass. “I’m not offended at the endearment, although I find it a bit lacking.” He smirked and took a sip of his wine.
I stared at him, speechless, my mouth making little ‘o’ shapes in the air. I was mortified.
“Drink up,” he said, pushing up at the base of my wine glass.
I lifted the glass and drained it.
“Boyfriend,” he said. “It’s just so pedestrian, isn’t it? No pizzazz. Lover is better, although not appropriate in every social situation. Sweetheart is nice, but it’s also something my mother calls me, so that’s out.” He reached for the wine bottle and filled my glass again. “I know!” he said, topping off his own glass. “Inamorato. It means all those other things, and it’s Italian, so it sounds fancy. And there’s a female version, inamorata, because those Italians are clever with words. But here, in the States,” he mused, “that might be confusing. Best to keep it simple. Boyfriend it is, then.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Cheers!”
“I’m so embarrassed,” I said, lifting a hand to my forehead.
“Oh don’t be, it’s just us here. Boyfriend and girlfriend.” He smirked at me.
“You are not helping.” I laughed, peering at him from under my hand. “My face feels like it’s about to catch on fire.”
“Oh,” he said, pulling my hand away from my face. “Let me see—your pink cheeks are my new addiction.”
“Oh my god, Tom.” I squirmed out of his grasp, put dow
n my glass and turned towards the wall to hide my embarrassment. I looked up and sighed when I realized he could still see my face. The entire back wall of the bar was covered in mirror. “Goddammit.”
“You can’t escape me, inamorata.” He stepped forward and folded his body over mine, his arms caging me against the countertop, his eyes finding mine in the mirror’s reflection. “I’m Prince James Charming Bond.” One hand ran over my waist and down over my backside, cupping my ass where it met the top of my thigh, liquid heat washing over my skin as he massaged my flesh. “I’ll find…um…cheeks are my…um.” He glanced at me sidelong in the mirror, his brow pinched with concentration. He was so cute, I burst out laughing.
“No, no,” he said, holding up a hand, while the other still cupped my bottom, kneading and caressing. “I had something unbelievably romantic to say just now.”
“Really? You sure about that? ’Cause, it sounded more like a Disney Prince creeping on a girl in a bar.”
“Thpppt,” he stuck out his tongue and scowled at me in the mirror. “Nonsense. I’m an English professor; every word that passes these lips is poetry.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” he said. “And honestly, it’s your fault. You’re distracting me with your womanly curves and I can’t think straight.” He waved a hand in the air. “The words are misbehaving in my head.”
I wiggled my ass against his hands.
“Oh, that’s just mean.”
I caught his eye in the mirror again, slicked my tongue across my lips and leaned very deliberately over the counter until the front of my robe fell open, my cleavage clearly visible in the mirror.
He gaped at me. “This is one of those naughty fairy tales, isn’t it?”
I laughed and covered my face with my hands again. My fingers tingled and my body felt deliciously loose and warm. “Oh my god,” I said, giggling. “We never had our picnic. We haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. I think we’re a little drunk.”
Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) Page 7
