Incubus Dreams - Laurell K. Hamilton [282]
I waited for him to curve his hands over my breasts, but he didn’t. He moved his hands just a little lower on my sides, so that his hands barely brushed the edges of my breasts and kept moving down my body. That one small brush against the edges of my breasts caught my breath in my throat, and closed my eyes, to shudder under his hands.
His hands, so large they cupped my ribs, and nearly met at my waist, his thumbs pressing over my belly button, my lower stomach. I waited for his hands to go lower, and just as he had above, he moved his hands to the sides of my hips. Swept that sure, heavy, glide of skin and nails away from even the beginning of my pubic bone, so that he was only touching my hips, my thighs, but nothing more. His hands kept sliding downward, but he’d skipped the parts I most wanted him to touch. It left me making small noises, low in my throat, not from what he was doing, but from what he hadn’t done. From what I wanted him to do.
It made me raise my arms, or try to, but Jean-Claude’s hands were there. He kept my hands pressed to the bed. I put more effort into it, and found that I could raise my hands off the bed an inch or so, but Jean-Claude pressed me back to the bed, going up on his knees to get the leverage he needed. I’d made him change positions, made him work a little harder, but that was all. I put more effort into raising my wrists, freeing my arms. I don’t know why, maybe because I hadn’t really thought about not being able to get away. Being trapped in theory is one thing, knowing it for a fact, is different. Or different for me.
“Why struggle?” Richard asked, in a voice that held a tone I’d never heard from him. “You know that Jean-Claude won’t let anything bad happen.” His big hands finished their glide down my body, to end with his fingers wrapping around my ankles. He didn’t press them to the bed, just held them, held my ankles in his hands.
I tried to get away from him. I couldn’t help it. It was just one of those things. Tell me I can’t, or show me I can’t, and I have to try. I wasn’t trying as hard as I could, but I was trying. Trying enough to feel the strength in his hands, a strength that could bend steel. I couldn’t get away.
He spread my legs, using his hands on my ankles. He spread my legs, wide and wider, while I tried to stop him. It was a game, because we’d all agreed to this. I wanted him to make love to me, but game or not, there was something about the way he spread my legs with the strength in his hands, while Jean-Claude pinned my arms, that sped my pulse, and made the struggles go from halfhearted to not so halfhearted. It was stupid, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to try to stop him from spreading my legs, from exposing me, and the fact that I couldn’t both scared me and excited me. The two feelings should have been mutually exclusive, but they weren’t.
“Tell me to stop,” Richard said, and his voice had grown deeper.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Then why are you struggling?” he asked, and there was a look in his face, eager, dark, happy, all at once. He pushed my legs farther apart, until it was just this side of hurting. Until the muscles in my thighs began to ache with the stretch. “Why are you struggling, if you don’t want me to stop?”
I said the only thing I could think of, “I don’t know.” My voice was breathier than I thought it would be, as if my pulse was interfering. I realized then, that he’d spread my legs so far apart that I really couldn’t struggle, not unless I wanted it to hurt. It made me push harder against Jean-Claude’s hands. I raised up a few inches, so that he actually had to come to his knees, and press down, to hold me secure. Him coming to his knees meant that suddenly his body was exposed just above my head. He hung loose and soft just above me, and until he fed he would stay soft. I loved the sensation of him in my mouth when he was like