Текст книги "Seven Nights to Surrender"

Автор книги: Jeanette Grey

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Tensing hard, she pushed into his touch, into the eager heat of his mouth, and it was there—right there. Warm fingers pressed against her opening, then just inside.

Her eyes snapped open, and her whole body arched, and she reached—reached—

“Rylan—”

God, it wasn’t a wave. It was a tsunami and relief and this crashing, incredible, pulsing oblivion. She shattered, over and over again, swearing out loud and groaning his name, and just wanting him to keep her right there. Against his tongue and his kiss and this trust. This promise.

That he had fulfilled.

When the fire and blackness and flesh-ripe taste of fruit inside her mouth collapsed, she opened her eyes, twitching at the few last laps he took across her clit. She drew her hand from his hair and, too sensitive, nudged at his head to try to get him to stop. Pressing upward with his fingers, he placed one more kiss to her sex before pulling away. Another aftershock rocked through her, only to be followed by a dull emptiness when he withdrew.

Rising up onto his knees, he was a vision, all bare skin to his waist, lips and fingers slick from what he’d given her. He dragged the back of his wrist over his mouth, and she whimpered. For a second, he closed his eyes, tilting his head upward as if he were appealing to a deity. When he looked to her again, his gaze was burning, a hunger so intense it sent a lick of misgiving curling up her spine. She moved to close her legs but he was still between them.

“You have no idea how sexy that was,” he said. He ran his hand down his torso, skimming it over the bulge in his jeans, and something inside of her clenched down again.

She’d do something for him. He’d probably want to be inside of her, and she could do that. If he insisted. It was only fair.

But as he looked down at her, he seemed to recognize the uncertainty tugging at her heart. He hung his head a little, shifting forward, moving to put one knee to the outside of her hip while the other one stayed planted firmly between her thighs. His thumb and forefinger played at the button of his pants. “I want to come so bad.”

“Yeah. We can—” She reached forward to help him.

He shook his head. “Not until you’re ready, beautiful.”

Still, he pulled at the fastener and lowered the zip. She watched, frozen, in a bizarre kind of fascination as he slipped his hand inside, groaning loudly as his wrist disappeared beneath the waistband.

And he was going to– Oh God, he was. Through the fabric, his hand moved, and she shook her head.

“Want to see.”

She’d never witnessed a man touching himself before, and the idea made her tingle, even as sated as she was.

He didn’t ask if she was sure. Everything about him was glazed with arousal, and he was looking straight at her as he pushed his pants and underwear down around his hips. Pulled himself out.

And it shouldn’t have been so hot, but there he was, muscles standing out in stark relief, gaze black with lust, and his cock– She sucked a breath and pulled her lip into her mouth. He was flushed, long and thick, glistening at the tip with fluid.

“See how hard that made me?” he asked, voice husky and dark. “Eating you out. You taste so good, and the noises you make—” He cut himself off with a moan as he took a long stroke down his length with his palm. The foreskin retracted back, revealing more of the head. He took his other hand, still wet with her, and slipped it around the shining skin at the end, leaving it slicker. “Fuck.”

In a punishing rhythm, he thrust his hips into his fist. She lay there, frozen in a sort of fascinated awe. Groaning long and deep, he threw his head back, squeezing out more liquid from his slit.

And it looked good. His pleasure looked amazing, sexy and gorgeous in a way she’d never fully understood before.

Hardly thinking, she extended her hand, slipping her fingertips over the head of his cock. The flesh was hot and achingly hard. “Let me—”

Before she could finish the offer, he gasped out a sound like he’d been punched, his body a tight bow, mouth open. “Kate, Kate, I—”

His come flowed over her hand, spattering down onto her hip in white streaks that felt like possession. She never would’ve expected it, but in that instant, being marked that way made a dark flare of satisfaction awake beneath her skin.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, taking a couple of last, slow pulls at himself before sliding free of his own grip. His damp fingers entwined with hers, and he squeezed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get you all messy.”

“It’s okay.”

Something in her chest turned over. Because it was. She didn’t mind.

She hadn’t been a virgin when she’d met him. They hadn’t had sex. But as she lay there, his body between her legs, her flesh wet with him . . . it felt like she had done something for the very first time.

Like she would never be quite the same as she had before.

chapter EIGHT

Rylan was wringing a washcloth out in the sink when he happened to look up. The bathroom was a little cramped, to be honest, but it was clean, the big plate-glass mirror over the vanity smoothly polished.

The man staring back at him from inside of it looked like he’d just had the best fuck of his life.

Balling the washcloth up in his fist, he ran his other hand through his hair, settling it down from where it had been standing up on end. Kate had done a number on him in that respect, tugging hard at his scalp—almost too hard in the moment right before she’d arched and screamed and pulsed against his tongue.

Just thinking about it made him lick his lips. He’d slept with more than his share of women, but he couldn’t think of any that had gone to pieces quite like that. He probably had nail marks all up and down his shoulders and his neck.

He’d been the first to make her come. And it had shown. God. She’d been wound up, and toward the end there, even he’d been starting to doubt if it were possible. She hadn’t seemed a stranger to the little death—and wasn’t that an image? The idea of her getting herself off? But either she’d been psyching herself out or he had lost his edge. Either way, she hadn’t asked him to stop, and she’d been so into it that he’d had to keep going, drunk on the sound of her moans. She’d clung to the edge for what had felt like forever, and when she’d finally let go . . .

He hadn’t even gotten inside her, and it had been one of the most intense sexual experiences of his life.

So intense, he hadn’t wanted to ruin it by pressing for something she’d clearly been uncomfortable with. Sex had been off the table, but he’d been so worked up. He’d thought it would take maybe a dozen strokes of his hand.

In the end, it had taken exactly one of hers.

Spent as he was, his cock gave a little twitch of interest inside his boxers. Which reminded him of what he was here to do.

Making a face, he got himself out and cleaned up the best he could. Not that he’d really made much of a mess of himself. His breath caught short at the image, seared into his mind, of his release on Kate’s pale skin. He hadn’t taken her, not yet, but that twisted animal hindbrain of his had enjoyed what claim he’d managed to stake.

A claim that had to be getting pretty damn uncomfortable by now.

He set the rag aside and ran a fresh one under the tap, as hot as he could stand, before squeezing it out and folding it up. He turned, stepping forward to face the open door leading onto the main room.

Kate lay there still, all creamy skin and the tumble of her hair against the white of the sheets. She was looking right at him, and for the first time all night, he felt self-conscious.

“You watching me?” he asked, putting on a smirk as he leaned against the doorway.

“You’re not the only one who can appreciate a view.”

It wasn’t ego stroking, and that was what made it hit him so squarely in the chest. He worked hard to look good—it was one of the only things he had to put effort into these days. It was nice to be appreciated. But it was also somehow something more.

The wryness to his smile melted away, leaving a curve to his mouth that felt entirely too genuine, and he’d curse himself later for being such a softie. But there wasn’t much to do about it now. Shaking his head, he crossed the room to her, sitting down on the edge of the bed at her side. She was still wearing that pretty blue lace bra, and it cupped her tits so perfectly. Made the soft pillows of the tops of them look all the fuller and more inviting. Resisting their temptation, he bent to nudge the sheet from where she’d draped it across her hip, leaving it high enough to hide her cunt without dragging through the puddle he’d left on her skin.

At the touch of the washcloth to her abdomen, she hummed. “Warm,” she said.

“Figured you’d like that.”

“Yeah.”

Once he’d wiped it all away, he bowed to press his lips to the hollow beside her hip. Planting his hand on the bed, he dropped another kiss on her navel and one on the top of each breast. He bypassed her lips, though, leaving a final one on her forehead.

He rose, pushing off to head to the bathroom.

“Thank you,” she said.

He paused. “You’re welcome?” It was an odd thing to say, right in that moment.

Apparently, she heard his confusion. “For everything. That, with the washcloth. It was nice. And . . . before. You were really patient with me.”

The insecurity dripping from her voice stopped him in his tracks. Forget the nasty rag in his hand. He rounded back toward the bed, dropped a knee to its edge, and probably with too much fierceness, insisted, “You do not need to thank me for that.”

What he really wanted to do was ask her what kind of assholes she’d been sleeping with. When you got a girl to be with you, you made damn sure she came, with your mouth or your fingers or your dick, and if she wasn’t cool with that, then by her own damn hand. Fuck anything else. And when you got a girl dirty, you sure as hell cleaned her up. Took care of her.

And just like that, he wanted to deck any guy who hadn’t done any of that for her before. She deserved better. So pretty and smart, so giving.

For a second, he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to calm down. Sure enough, when he looked at her again, she had a wariness to her expression, and no. That wasn’t okay.

He cupped her face and leaned down, covering her mouth with his as gently and as sweetly as he could. “It was a pleasure,” he promised. “Every single moment of it. A privilege.”

He slid his hand down her neck before pulling away.

On his way back to the bathroom, he flexed his fingers at his side, still feeling the warmth of her skin against his palm. More often than not, he went to bed with a woman once, and then he moved on. But he hadn’t been lying. She’d been beautiful in her pleasure, and it had been a privilege to give it to her.

A privilege he hoped he’d get to have again. At least once.

The man in the bathroom mirror stared at him, and he didn’t know who he’d been fooling. He hoped he could have her a lot more times than that.

As many times as he could before she left.

While the water was running in the other room, Kate took the opportunity to quietly freak the hell out. She’d only ever done the one-night stand thing once before, and that had been completely different. The guy had come to her place, and as soon as he was done, he’d left her there, sore and confused and desperate for a shower.

Nothing about this encounter seemed to be heading in that direction.

Still, sharing a bed with a guy wasn’t something she’d done a lot of. Rylan had told her explicitly that he’d gotten the room for the both of them, and they could split the cost for the rest of the time she was in town. It didn’t seem likely he was going to duck out, or that he expected her to. But what was she supposed to do now? It wasn’t that late, and she was way too jazzed to sleep.

Glancing over at the big hiker’s backpack he’d left against the wall, she scowled. He could have given her a heads-up about this whole plan of his. What she wouldn’t give for some fresh underwear and a T-shirt to change into now. Chewing on the inside of her lip, she played with the strap of her bra. She’d been wearing it all day, and the underwire was digging into her uncomfortably. She’d like to take it off, but . . . but then she’d be naked.

She rubbed the heel of her hand into her eye. He’d had his face between her legs, and here she was, worrying about him seeing her boobs.

“You wanna borrow a T-shirt or something?”

Somehow, she’d missed the sound of the tap shutting off. She turned, grateful, to find him standing in the doorway to the bathroom again.

“Yeah, actually. That would be really great.” She considered for a second. “I mean, we’re—we’re in for the night, right?”

“Unless you have something in particular you want to do.”

“No.” Her legs still felt like they might turn to jelly. Staying in sounded like a good idea.

He rummaged around in his bag for a second before tossing her a plain black undershirt. “You want a pair of boxers or something, too?”

She thought about it for a second before nodding. It would be better than nothing. Way better than the pair of panties she’d just about soaked through.

“They’re clean.” He passed over a crisp blue cotton pair. “Promise.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you mind if I—?” He gestured at the jeans he hadn’t bothered to refasten, hanging loose around his hips.

She didn’t want him to be uncomfortable. And really, it was only fair, wasn’t it? He’d seen an awful lot of her. She should get to at least catch a glimpse of his legs. “It’s fine.”

He sat on the edge of the bed to tug off the shoes and socks she somehow hadn’t realized he still had on, followed by his pants. Stripped down to his boxers, he was even more attractive. Maybe because he was so comfortable in his skin. His gorgeous, smooth, golden-colored skin.

He smirked as he looked over at her, and she dropped her gaze from the lightly haired musculature of his calves. The man was a figure painter’s dream, an anatomy lesson waiting to happen, and she was dying for the chance to draw him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She raised her gaze from the sheets and fiddled with the clothes he’d given her.

“Want some help?” Playfully, he ran a finger under her bra strap, then drifted down to tug at the hooks and eyes. “I’m really good at these.”

She bet he was. She shook her head at him and held her hair out of the way. “Sure.”

He popped the fasteners in a single deft movement. She twisted away from him as she pushed the straps off her shoulders, exposing her breasts, still bashful even after everything.

God but she wished she could let that go. That she could quiet the voice in the back of her mind that kept whispering all these doubts, about her looks, her talents. About what she deserved. She shivered, flashes of memories crowding in around her, feeling tiny and worthless, and none of it had been fair. It wasn’t fair for it to be coming back to her now.

She’d taken this huge chance on this man, and it had paid off in spades. So why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy it?

Even as she obsessed, Rylan sat there behind her, solid and present and real. He ran his hand down the line of her spine, a whisper-light touch that chased a little of the chill away.

“Pretty,” he said, leaning in, pressing his lips just once, quickly, to the center of her back.

She caught the word and tried to hold on to it. To believe it. “Thanks.”

He eased off then, giving her space to pull his shirt on over her head. The fabric smelled like him, clean and warm somehow. Comforting. Without lifting the sheet from her hips, she got his boxers on, too. They were big on her, but not too bad. The man had a lean, trim waistline.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, pulling her hair free from the collar of his shirt. “Much.”

“Good.” With that, he flopped himself down on the mattress, head on the pillows and legs straight in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other. He held his arm out in invitation.

One she was only too happy to accept. Pulling the covers halfway up, she curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her hand fall across his chest. He was so warm, and he smelled so good. What had she been saying a minute ago about it not being late enough to go to sleep?

They lay there in silence for a while, him combing his hand through her hair while she danced her fingertips over the lines of definition across his abdomen and chest. It was strangely comfortable.

Until she ran the edge of her nail along the chain draped around his neck. It was a series of little interlocking links, and there—hanging from the center of it was . . . a ring? Gold and silver with a row of tiny diamonds down the middle. Large enough that it was probably a man’s. His fingers stilled in her hair when she touched it.

“What is it?” she asked.

His hand settled over hers in a firm but gentle grip. She let go of the ring as he guided her to rest her palm against his belly instead.

“Nothing.” His throat bobbed.

“Nothing?”

“Just my father’s wedding ring.”

Oh. A hundred questions raced through her mind, but it was invasive, wasn’t it? If Rylan was wearing the ring around his neck, his dad was probably gone. Dead or disappeared, or—

“Is he . . .” She trailed off.

Rylan scoffed, apparently hearing what she wasn’t sure if she should say. “He’s in prison.”

Oh.

Another dry chuckle escaped his lips. “The man spent his whole damn life telling me what to do. Imagine my surprise when I find out what he’s been up to all these years.” A flicker of pain—of betrayal—creased his brow.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve made my peace with it.”

Like hell he had. Everything about him was bristling.

Letting go of her hand, he trailed his fingers up his chest to tap the edge of the band. “He gave me this a long time ago. Right after the divorce. He took it off the second he got back from the lawyer’s office and he . . . he made as if to throw it away.”

She hummed in invitation, willing him to go on.

Remembering her own father, and how he had thrown them all away . . .

Ever so slowly, he resumed his stroking of her hair. “I asked if I could have it. And he laughed.” Bitterness shadowed his tone. “But he still gave it to me.”

She stayed there, quiet, waiting for more, but he didn’t speak again.

It was the tiniest glimpse. She could imagine it, a younger, wider-eyed Rylan looking up to this hulking father figure. From the sound of it, only to be let down over and over. An ache pressed at the center of her ribs, a sudden need to know more.

The words were right there, compelling her to ask, but before they could escape, she bit her tongue. She hardly knew this man. They’d shared a couple of nights together, and she liked him. A lot. But he didn’t owe her anything. Not his history and not his confidence. Not if he didn’t want to offer them up to her.

From the stiff set of his jaw, she had a feeling he’d already given more of each than he usually did.

A different instinct crept over her as she stared at him. Not to push, but instead to give him something in return. She considered for a long, silent moment. Then with forced deliberateness, she relaxed her posture, returned her breathing to normal. Stroked the stretch of skin beneath her fingertips, keeping them far away from the shiny glimmer of that ring.

“I haven’t spoken to my dad since I was twelve.”

Some of the tension bled out of his shoulders. “That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. Well. He was . . . not a nice man.” That wasn’t even the half of it. He’d left her with this mess in her head, this tiny piece of herself that always said she wasn’t good enough, didn’t deserve what she did get, was never going to make anything of herself . . . She swallowed hard. “Not to me and not to my mom. He . . .” Manipulated us. Made us think we couldn’t stand on our own two feet and then . . . “He lied to her. For years. Cheated.” That was an offense anyone could understand. One she could explain without tearing herself apart. “Not exactly the kind of thing you get over quickly.”

Or at all.

Rylan chuckled, rubbing his thumb across the back of her palm. “Fathers, huh? They fuck you up.”

She shivered. “You can say that again.”

She loved that he had said it. He couldn’t possibly understand with how much she’d kept unspoken. But for one shimmering instant, it felt like he did.

They lay there, gently touching and holding each other in the quiet of that space. It was tentative, a shaky intimacy built on half-formed confessions and the barest hints of their histories. But it felt good. Safe.

After a minute or two, he let out a breath and squeezed her shoulder. “So.” A brightness crept into his tone, a false levity. Letting go of her hand, he reached over to the nightstand for the remote. “You had a chance to try French television yet?”

The fuzzy closeness of the moment shivered, but it didn’t shatter.

She turned her gaze toward the screen as it came to life on the other side of the room. “No. I haven’t.”

“It’s an experience.”

As he pressed a button, the sounds of fast-spoken French filled the room, and she frowned.

“Do they have English subtitles?”

“Don’t worry.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her temple. “I can translate.”

He flipped through the channels for a bit before he found something that must have appealed to him, and he set the remote down at his side, shifting to hold her hand again. True to his word, he murmured his interpretation of the dialogue into her ear, his voice deep and warm. She let it wrap around her the way his arms did.

And if she couldn’t keep her gaze from flickering to the bit of gold between his collarbones, well. At least she did her best.