Читать книгу Intoxicating! - Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 9

DANIEL PULLED AWAY from her. “I should go,” he said, completely and utterly embarrassing her.

Oh God. She had thought…well, who cares what she thought? She’d been so caught up in the rare moment of being in the close proximity of such a man-man and now she’d blown it. Why the heck did she think he’d want to kiss her?

Talk. Yes. Sex. That’s a big No.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She was rambling. Whenever she got embarrassed, she developed a severe case of foot-in-mouth disease, which was a reason she always managed to avoid embarrassing situations.

“It wasn’t that stupid,” he answered, his eyes crinkling up nicely.

“I don’t mean that it was stupid to kiss you, I mean, you’re…” She waved a hand, searching for words, but found none, so opted for a silent adjective and stared a hole in the floor. He could figure that one out on his own. “I meant that I shouldn’t have intruded into your space without an explicit invitation. It’s rude.”

“I didn’t think it was rude,” he answered evenly, making her like him even more. He was so polite, trying to make her feel better, and she did.

“Okay, maybe not rude, but wrong.”

“It wasn’t wrong, either.”

“I shouldn’t have done it. Let’s leave it at that,” she stated, trying to extricate herself from this with some pride intact.

“No, I think you should have done it.”

At that point, as nice as his ego-bolstering was, she decided to bring him crashing back to reality. “Which is why I put the fear of God in you and you jumped?” she asked, as nicely as she could have when her words dripped with sarcasm.

He shook his head. “Not the fear of God. Something much more basic.”

His voice changed at the end, turning rough and textured. In fact, she was so caught up in this newly discovered sexualvoice experience that she almost missed the words.

Almost. Her stomach pitched and then steadied, and she wondered if he knew what he’d just done. She didn’t dare look up, but she sensed the change in the air. It wasn’t the salt of the sea or the hint of black fruit in the bouquet of the wine. This was heady and strong, and sent bright bursts of fever rushing through her.

“So this is okay?” she asked, her breath thin and forced, coming from freshly squeezed lungs.

His hand curved around her waist, his fingers stroking softly, straying into the no-man’s-land between her bare back and the elastic of her swimsuit. Her body shivered, nerve endings descending into pleasured chaos.

There was something so private, so personal about a man’s and woman’s gazes meeting, and Catherine didn’t do it often. People thought she was shy, but cowardly was the better description. In her chest, her heart thudded painfully, and slowly, questioningly, her eyes raised to his, her Odysseus. Desire darkened the gray to black smoke, and he didn’t look lonely. Not anymore. Catherine couldn’t look away. Not now. Probably not ever.

Her hand reached out, touching the cotton shirt that covered his chest. One touch, to feel him. To touch him at last.

Her palm rested flat on him, over his heart, and she could feel the heated blood pounding there.

Warm flesh was so much better than art. The hard contours of his body weren’t cold granite, or marble, but overflowed with muscle, bone and blood that called to her. She considered herself an expert on the male body in theory, but she wasn’t even close when it came to the real thing. Right now, she was shaking like a kid. Gently, he inched her toward him, until her whole body was aligned with his, sternum to sternum, pelvis to pelvis, woman to man.

Bliss.

Then he lowered his head, covering her lips with his own.

Oh.

Oh.

She felt his mouth tremble, or was that hers? Catherine wasn’t a virgin; she’d been kissed before, but not like this. Hesitation and reverence melted together under the heat in the air. Automatically she moved into him, his arms closing around her, wrapping her in twin bands of strength and steel.

Catherine sighed with relief, and when her mouth opened, his tongue eased inside, all hesitation gone. He stroked the inside of her lip, slipping back and forth until the drugging rhythm was ebbing through her blood, igniting her skin, pulsing between her thighs.

Her hands explored and she couldn’t believe that this man, this masterful creation, was alive. A momentary doubt stole into her brain, but some things didn’t lie, and the thick erection burning her thigh was proof enough. She wanted that proof inside her.

He broke the kiss, lifting his head, his breathing as ragged as hers, and she thought he was going to leave her.

“You’ll stay with me?” she asked, needy, the doubts stealing back.

His face was tight with tension, his fingers biting into the curve of her hip, but she didn’t care. She wanted his touch, and now the need overcame fear, overcame pride, overcame dignity. Her body needed this.

“Bed.”

Catherine nodded because intelligent speech was impossible. She led him to her room, her nerves simmering, threatening to boil.

He was going to love her, touch her, kiss her, caress her, and she was dizzy with the thought of it. That amazing body that was currently hidden by his clothes was going to be hers. At least for one night.

“Can I undress you?” she asked, the words out before she could think, but how could she think? How could any sane woman think?

“That’s what you want?” As if women didn’t ask to undress him every day. Heckuva job, Catherine.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He was going to think she was obsessed. A nympho ready to pounce, and okay, she wanted him. Badly. But there were other forces at work inside her—namely the desperate desire to see him naked to know if her currently overworked imagination was right.

“Catherine, you don’t have to apologize for everything.”

“I’m—No, I’m not sorry. I wanted to see you because okay, this part is embarrassing, but not exactly for what you’re thinking. You know that I draw, and, well—you have a perfect body for sketching.” Her cheeks burned, and maybe now he thought she was weird, but weird was oodles better than sleazy.

“Really?” he said, as if he didn’t think she was weird…or sleazy. In fact, he sounded…pleased.

“Absolutely. Certainly.” And then, because he was watching her so thoroughly, she drew his T-shirt over his head, struggling to be the artist she told him she was. “See this line here. It’s the axis of your body, your dawn line, perfectly dividing the détente muscle, those are those…uh…little ripples.” Her index finger traced the path, and she nearly sighed, but that would totally snooker the “dedicated artist” image that she was going for.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should. I do this for a living.”

“Really?” he asked, teasing her.

“Not this, but—” she drew a horizontal line across his shoulders, feeling the heavy muscles jump wherever she touched “—this.”

Her palms felt the hard planes of his chest, absorbed the soft whirls of hair, the tight nipples, and she knew that she could never capture that vitality and strength on paper. Ever. Only in her hands.

She followed the trail of hair down, lower, and she knew the instant that he stopped breathing. Daringly, her fingers delved beneath his shorts, and then she stopped breathing, too.

But her curiosity wouldn’t let her stop. Slowly, the soft boxers slid down hard thighs and then…

Then…

Oh, she wasn’t going to look, but she had to look. She had to see, and heaven help her, she gasped.

Yes, like a total dilettante, she gasped.

For a second she could do nothing but gaze upon him with deep-seated lust, then her eyes studied his face.

He didn’t look happy. He looked stressed.

“Can I see you?” he asked, and she nodded once before she realized that she needed to steer his expectations toward something resembling reality because she wasn’t anywhere close to the perfection that he was.

“I’m not nearly as well-proportioned.”

He drew down the straps of her bathing suit. “That’s an entirely subjective statement. I think you’re very well-proportioned.”

“I weigh too much.”

He slipped the suit off her hips and along her legs and looked at her for a long time, that comprehensive gaze making her nervous. He wasn’t missing a thing. Not the half dozen cupcakes that resided happily on her butt, or her mushy thighs that didn’t get nearly enough exercise or the pooch in her belly that four million sit-ups could easily cure.

“See?” she answered, completely sure he was going to tell her to put her bathing suit back on. In fact, she was so sure he was going to say that, that she reached down to pull it back over her mushy thighs, until he grabbed her hand in a death grip.

“Don’t move,” he ordered.

Catherine noticed the clenched jaw, the eyes that were mere slits of darkness, and began to relax. Eventually, his perfect chest heaved a sigh. “I’m better now,” he said.

“You’re nervous, too?” she asked curiously.

“Not at the moment. Tomorrow, yes. But right now, I’m good.”

“I’m good, too,” she answered.

His mouth took hers again, and he settled over her on the bed. There was another moment when his chest pressed into hers and he froze, and she swore that he was going to fly off her, but then he breathed again, and she sighed. It was very strange having a perfect man on top of her, his mouth kissing her, his hands touching her. But Catherine knew this wasn’t a dream—the ache between her legs convinced her of that—and the way he touched her, almost desperately, convinced her of it, too.

She kissed him desperately, her curious fingers tracing the lines that she had drawn on paper, but the paper was cold compared to the warmth of his skin. No painter, no sculptor, no impressionistic master had ever captured that life, that heat. She caressed the places that she had only imagined, and when she heard him groan, she smiled.

“I don’t have a condom,” he said, raising up on his arms. “I can’t believe I forgot this.”

He was leaving her? Hell, no. Instantly, pathetically, panic gave wings to her speech. “I’m on the pill. It regulates my periods. I have a heavy flow, my—”

Quickly, he shut her up with a kiss, and she really didn’t blame him. Catherine curled her arms around his neck and breathed deeply. He smelled of sandalwood and wine, and she treasured that secret smell, locking the memory safely away. She would remember this. One stolen night that she would remember forever.

“You’re sure?” he asked, and she could feel him, feel the hardness of him poised at her opening. More than anything she wanted to feel him there, inside her. She had to know how this would feel.

“Absolutely certain,” she answered and the velvety hardness plunged between her legs. Once. Hard.

Oh.

Catherine froze.

“You’re okay? I’m sorry. I’m rusty.”

He sounded so apologetic, as if this was all his fault, and Catherine quickly moved to correct that heresy. “It’s me. I wouldn’t know if you’re rusty or not.”

He lifted up again, stared. “You haven’t done this before?”

“Oh, yeah,” she answered carelessly, like four times made her an expert, and Antonio hadn’t been that good, but as her body adjusted, this felt…nice.

Daniel was large and bulky, and she loved how she didn’t feel so tall when he was on top of her.

Again he began to move, with long, easy strokes, and she was fascinated with the idea of it, until it started to feel good—no, this was great.

Her hips followed his, melding together into this heady retreat and advance. Nervously, she met his eyes because he was so quiet. She found him watching her, those careful eyes looking at her face, her mouth, with a thorough intensity that almost frightened her, if it hadn’t turned her on so much. All that—for her.

She felt his hungry gaze on her lips, wanted to feel his mouth, so she took a chance, kissing him, and…

It was exactly like before, his tongue teasing her mouth, seducing her lips, her skin, her entire being, until she couldn’t think anymore, only feel. She grasped his broad back, the hard line of his buttocks, and felt him invading her, possessing her.

Oh oh oh…

Everything turned upside down inside her, and at the moment, Catherine realized why people loved sex.

This was heaven.

He thrust deeper inside her, plunging farther, moving faster, and her blood quickened. She could feel his muscles tightening, feel her own muscles clench and unclench instinctively, in a way that she had never known.

This was better than heaven. Oh, this was so much better than heaven.

Faster.

This was—

Fasterfasterfasterfaster.

Flying. She was flying now.

Fasterfasterfasterfaster.

Ohhh….

She couldn’t speak, her brain liquid. Catherine’s eyes popped open as the world began to collapse around her.

Then she felt his hand between her legs and the world didn’t collapse, it exploded like a star, bursting into huge fiery pieces of color, and this from a woman who lived in a world of cream and beige and gray pencil slate.

Her thighs shook—in fact, her whole body shook.

No, he was shaking. Was he supposed to shake?

He cursed, but in a good way, she thought, as she felt him spill inside her. Warm, liquid, filling her.

Wow.

Wowww….

Then he collapsed on her, his back slick with sweat, his perfect chest expanding and contracting in great waves. “I’m sorry. That was too quick,” he said, his face buried in her hair.

Quick? Quick? He thought that was quick? What happened when it wasn’t quick? Good God, no wonder people got so heated up over this.

Her hand curved over his back, fascinated by the way the muscles bunched under her fingers. She loved this freedom to feel him, touch him, learn what the male body was truly like. In fact, she couldn’t wait to draw him. Completely.

“I thought it was perfect,” she said with a contented sigh.

He lifted his head, and when he looked at her, she saw something different in his eyes. The black had warmed to charcoal, his mouth curved up, smug with satisfaction. So often she’d seen that heady look staring back at her from a two-hundred-year-old canvas, or a black-and-white still photo, blind eyes that never saw her. But this man saw her.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, rolling off her to one side, and she missed that completeness, that weight pressing down on her.

“You’re telling me this gets better?”

“Lots,” he answered, stroking her hair. “It can be great, awesome, world-stirring.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” answered Catherine, realizing that she wasn’t a world-stirrer, and she wanted to be a world-stirrer. She loved this newfound lust for life rising up inside her. “Do you think we can make it to world-stirring?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I think we’ll get there before the weekend is out.”

And she snuggled into his chest, feeling the world transform from one-note sepia tones into full-blown impressionistic color, because before the weekend was out, they’d do this again, and Catherine’s world was already starting to stir.