Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [57]
But she hadn’t survived her family by being a coward. Or by hiding from what she wanted, even if she knew perfectly well it was bad for her.
And she wanted the man beneath her. At least a taste of him. “You’d be surprised how brave I can be,” she said. And she leaned down and put her own mouth against his chest, her hair falling around them like a curtain of night.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, his hands reaching up through her hair to cup her face. She ran her mouth down the thin line of hair on his chest. She wanted to kiss his stomach, but she couldn’t reach without moving from her perch astride him, and she liked the feel of him, hard and full between her legs. She rocked slightly against that ridge of flesh, and the sensation was exquisite, overwhelming, unnerving. She froze, but his hands caught her hips. “Don’t stop, sugar,” he murmured. “If it feels half as good to you as it feels to me then you can’t stop.”
It was the most erotic experience she’d ever had in her life. The layers of cloth between them only increased the friction, and when he reached up to touch her breasts he did so through the thin cotton, not touching her hot flesh. The barrier of cloth was incredibly frustrating, incredibly arousing.
“You like that, don’t you, Jilly?” he whispered as her hair flowed around them. “Nice and safe, all that clothing between us. Nothing touching, no skin, just safe. Distant. Strangers.” She was moving slowly, back and forth, sliding against the ridge of flesh, and she was hot, cold, panting, moving.
He was talking to her. Hot sex words, telling her what he wanted to do to her, how he wanted to touch her, taste her, take her, as his hands caught her hips, controlling the rhythm, arching against her, and she heard the words in a blind flurry of shame and desire. This was wrong, this was bad, this was indecent, and there was no way she was stopping, no way she could stop. But she needed more, she needed his flesh, she needed him inside her as she’d never needed anyone before, and she was sweating, trembling all over.
“No,” she said in a choked voice. “I can’t…”
“Sure you can. Just try it,” he mocked her, arching up against her sensitive body, and she wanted to punch him, to bite him, for tormenting, teasing her like this when she couldn’t…
He was right, she could. One moment she was fighting it, the next she was convulsing, her entire body exploding in a fast, fierce orgasm.
And he was with her. She heard his harsh groan, felt the heat and wetness that flowed between them, and she slid down slowly, sensuously, pressing her face to his chest, her breasts against his stomach, letting the wetness soak into her T-shirt.
It took her long, shocking moments to realize what she’d done. What he’d done. With a start she scrambled away from him, landing on the floor in a sprawling, ungainly heap.
He rose on his elbows, looking down at his body with a slow, wry grin. “Well, that hasn’t happened in a hell of a long time. You’re a dangerous woman, Jilly Meyer.”
She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at herself, as waves of mortification swept over her. It was growing light outside—she didn’t even have the mercy of the night to cover her embarrassment.
So she did what any brave, self-respecting woman would do. She ran away. Hearing the sound of his laughter echoing in the distance.
13
“I need a cigarette,” Brenda said breathily, leaning back against the sofa.
Ted passed her one of his, a grin on his face. “You always had a voyeuristic streak, honeybunch.”
“You have to admit that was a lot more inspiring than some of the stuff we’ve seen over the years. Those disgusting creatures who filled this place in the sixties used to pile on each other like dogs,” she said with a sniff.
“Rachel-Ann hasn’t proved to have much taste where men are concerned. And I’m not sure if I approve of this Coltrane character. Jilly deserves better.”
Brenda smiled serenely. “You’re just jealous. There’s no reason to be. He’s very good-looking but he’s not my type.”
Ted looked