Incubus Dreams - Laurell K. Hamilton [131]
I managed to whisper—almost hiss—his name, “Nathaniel.”
He hesitated a fraction. “Anita, are you . . .”
“Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”
He didn’t ask again. He shifted his positon a fraction, then closed his eyes and gave himself to the rhythm of his body. I tried to move my hips, but his hands clamped tight on my hips, keeping me still. Holding me in place.
The pressure built, built, until my body was thick with it, full of it, and then it spilled out. Out in a burst of liquid between my legs, out in shrieks, out in my hands clawing the carpet. I had to claw at something, had to do something with the pleasure. It was as if it were too much pleasure for my skin to hold. If I’d had a beast inside me, it would have spilled out along with that thick liquid between my thighs.
He eased himself out of me, and I lay on the carpet, unable to move. Hell, I was having trouble focusing my eyes, let alone moving anything else.
He crawled to my head, stroking my hair back from my face. “Are you alright?”
I started to laugh, then blinked and tried to see better. He was still spilling out of his pants, and he was still hard and firm, and though there was liquid on him, it wasn’t white enough or heavy enough to be his.
I swallowed the laugh and said in a voice that was still breathy, “You didn’t go.”
“You weren’t in a head space where you could give me permission.”
I closed my eyes and willed myself to sober up. When I opened them, I could see again, no bleary edges. Good. “What do you mean, give you permission?” I asked.
“I don’t get to have orgasm unless you tell me I can.”
The look on my face must have been eloquent, because he said, with a smile, “I knew that would weird you out, but look at the benefits, Anita. I can go for a very long time, because that’s the way I was trained.”
“Trained,” I said.
He nodded.
I closed my eyes again. “You’ve been begging for orgasm, for intercourse. You had the perfect excuse, and you don’t take it.” I opened my eyes and stared at him. “Why didn’t you take it?”
“I want you to want me, Anita. Not just use me for a metaphysical emergency.”
I sat up and was reminded that I had no underwear on. I glanced at the carpet and for the first time was glad it was a dark woodsy brown. The wet spot didn’t show as badly. “Where are my underwear?” I asked.
He started looking around as if he weren’t sure either. Great. He was also still perfectly erect, and it was distracting.
“If you’re not going to . . .” I started to make a gesture, but stopped, “then can you put . . . that away.”
He turned with a smile that was perilously close to a grin. “Why, does it bother you?”
“Yes,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, pulling my skirt down over my hips.
He held my underwear out toward me. He was fighting a smile, but it filled his lavender eyes with supressed laughter.
I snatched them from his hand, but couldn’t think of a slick way of getting them on. Truthfully, I was wet enough that I needed towels before I got back into my panties.
I walked, a little wobbly, around my desk. I had baby wipes in the desk drawer. They helped with cleanup when I came into work with a spot of blood I’d missed. I was debating whether I could sacrifce my extra T-shirt that I kept in a drawer for blood emergencies, too, when Nathaniel started talking again. And not about anything I was comfortable hearing.
“You know it’s rare for a woman to be able to do that.”
I had the drawer open and the moist towelettes in hand. “What’s rare?”
“You’re a rainmaker.” He was kneeling on the other side of the desk, with his arms on the desktop and his chin resting on them. It was a strangely childlike gesture, and it did nothing to make me feel better.
“The only definition I know for that term is a lawyer who brings in big bucks for their law firm. I’m assuming that rainmaker has a meaning that I don’t know.” I made sure my unhappiness about the whole topic showed in my voice. I was uncomfortable enough just cleaning myself up. I was wet down to my knees and beyond. Jesus, what