The Bravos: Family Ties. Christine Rimmer
another low moan, she opened for him. His hot tongue swept her mouth, burning where it touched, and his body moved above hers slowly in one long, all-over caress.
She could feel him acutely—all of him. There, at the place where her thighs joined, he was thick and hard, nestled and nudging against her. He moved his hips, a slight, slow rocking. She rocked with him, holding him close, loving the way he felt, the way that their bodies fit so perfectly together, as if they’d been made to make love with each other.
He broke the burning kiss and he looked down at her, the blue rims around his irises darker than before, his fine mouth swollen from plundering hers. “Everything,” he whispered. “Everything, all of you …”
And all she could say was, “Yes,” and “Yes,” again.
He eased his legs between hers, pushed up to his knees and loomed above her. She cried out at the loss of his fine, strong body on hers. And then she looked up at him and …
He was so thrilling to look at—wide shoulders, lean arms. A light dusting of silky dark hair formed a cross on that hard chest, nipple to nipple and trailing down in an enticing line over his corrugated belly. The lean, taut muscles of his thighs were temptingly prominent. From the nest of dark hair between those thighs, his erection jutted, stiff and ready for her.
His gaze was on her, moving, those eyes pale and shining as moons in the dark of night. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “More beautiful than I imagined. And I did imagine. Often …”
He bent close again. And he began to kiss her—all over. She heard the hungry pleading noises coming from her own throat as he laid a knowing hand over the curls that covered her sex.
He sought and found the swollen secret flesh where her pleasure was greatest. With his thumb he teased that spot as his fingers delved lower, between the slick folds.
She cried out again at the searing delight he brought her, a cry he took into himself as he once more covered her mouth with his.
Her mind was on fire, like her body. She was liquid and she was fire, both at once. She was thoughtless, needful flesh and all she knew was the searing wet heat of his tongue in her mouth, the knowing way his fingers played her below.
He didn’t rush. Oh, no. He took his time. He had the slow hands women whisper of, the erotic skill to make her burn for the feel of him inside her.
More than once she tugged at him, moaning, urging him to fill her—but he wouldn’t. He only kissed her some more and touched her yet more deeply.
Until she gave in. Until she couldn’t hold out, couldn’t wait. She felt her body rising, gathering, reaching the crest.
And then she went over with another sharp, shattered cry. Sweat dewed her body. She went limp with satisfaction. Sighing in contentment, she pushed his hand away.
But he wouldn’t let her rest. His fingers, wet with the evidence of her desire, played along her rib cage, traced teasing patterns on her stomach. He tormented her with pleasure, arousing her all over again.
He stroked her thighs, took her breasts in each hand, covering one with his mouth, teasing her nipple between his teeth, worrying it and then latching on and sucking, drawing the yearning into a shining thread, a strand of pure heat spinning out and pulling tight from her breast to her womb.
And in no time she was crying out all over again, rising to meet him, all yearning and open and hungry for more.
It was then, deep within the delicious web of pleasure he wove so expertly around her, that she found herself remembering her mother, remembering Lolita, scenting again the smell of perfume and sex; seeing in her mind’s eye the flushed, loose, dewy smile on her mother’s beautiful face when she would come home from the first night with a new man.
These were powerful memories, old images that had always brought Cleo pain and bewilderment that her mother could be such a fool, could surrender to the same temptations over and over again.
Now, though, Cleo smiled between moans.
Incredible, but while Fletcher touched her, while his hands worked their thrilling magic on her flesh, in the heat and the wonder of this, she understood …
Everything.
She understood her mother for the very first time, understood how a woman might be willing to give up so much for the shining, hot joy of this; saw why Lolita had always chosen to toss herself, heedless of old lessons learned, into the arms of yet another player who could sweep her away like this.
Again Cleo rose to the peak, clutching the silk sheets, moaning his name, whispering, pleading, “Oh, please. Make it now….”
He kissed her so deeply and then he reached for the drawer in the bedside table, brought out a condom, tore the wrapping open and expertly slid it down over himself.
She watched him as he performed those necessary actions. She was achingly eager for the moment when he would slip between her thighs—and also reminded again that he was so good at this, that he must have had lots of practice.
But then, that wasn’t news. She had known from the first he would be skilled at lovemaking. After all, there had been others before her, a glittering string of them, beautiful women every one of them, she had no doubt. Practice makes perfect, as they say.
How many of those women had really loved him? And how many only hungered for the pleasure he could give them, for the prestige having him at their side could bring them?
How many of them had Fletcher loved? If any …
Doesn’t matter, she decided, gazing up him longingly. She was here now, naked, in his bed. Too late to wonder about the ones who came before her, too late to do anything but go where this magic took her.
His gray gaze was on her again. He held her eyes as he settled himself in place. She was way beyond ready, so wet and eager and open that he glided in all the way with the first thrust.
They both moaned.
And then she grabbed for him, pulling him fully down upon her, lifting and wrapping her legs around him, pressing her heels hard against him, urging him on.
He didn’t need encouragement.
He moved, slow and long and deep at first, then gathering speed, stoking the fires within until the world spun away and there was only white-hot pleasure expanding out from the center of her, sweeping through her whole body, carrying her up and sending her over in a shower of endless, shimmering light.
Chapter Nine
“Come with me,” he said, when six o’clock approached and with it the time to go to Celia’s and pick up Ashlyn.
Cleo gazed up at him from her nest of silk-covered pillows and told him regretfully, “Oh, Fletcher. No.
Not tonight …”
He bent his head and kissed her, hard and quick. “Why not?”
Naturally he would choose the question she didn’t really know how to answer. Gamely she gave it a try. “I need a little time to myself, that’s all. Time to think.” He was shaking his head. “Bad idea.” She frowned up at him. “What? Thinking?”
“Yeah, thinking—or more specifically overthinking. You’ll go home and you’ll start stewing and before you know it—” he cupped her bare breast, flicked it with his tongue, bringing a pleasured gasp from her, before he lifted his dark head again, met her eyes and finished “—you’ll have yourself convinced that this afternoon was a bad idea.”
“No, I won’t.”
It was only half a lie. The sex had been fantastic. She didn’t have it in her to call such delight a bad idea. But as far as the rest of it, as far as getting involved with this particular man …
It hadn’t been wise. Not wise, not prudent. Not the least bit sensible.