The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [52]
His mouth broke away, hips still pumping softly. “You make such wonderful noises.”
She hadn’t realized she’d been making any. “Oh good.”
“I want to touch you,” he whispered, sounding equal parts awed and aggressive.
All her brain’s usual protests were drowned out by a desire so strong it pounded in her veins. Those hands. She’d watched them at work all those hours, fingers skillful beyond words. “I’d like that.”
He thrust himself gently against her for a few more beats, his grunts no longer stifled, the sounds and sensations of his power thrilling her. A sudden fear chilled her blood.
“I’m not the easiest woman to…navigate.”
He rose from the bed, shed his slacks and stood in candlelight, all lean muscle and unspoken promises.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“Okay. But don’t feel badly if…you know.”
He smiled at her artless escape clauses and crawled to her, his nearly bare body looming above hers. “If I seem to be struggling, I trust you will show me what you like.”
She didn’t reply but let him reach down and slide her panties from her legs. His eyes took her in.
“Fallon,” he said. Hungry.
He sat beside her, half-reclined on one arm as the other hand ran up her knee, her thigh, her hip. With a concerted effort she dismissed any disparaging thoughts about her body. Tonight was a lesson in acceptance, a lesson in accepting whatever it was he was going to teach her about herself. She clasped her hands nervously at her belly, clutching the silk as if it were a security blanket.
As if sensing she needed a distraction, Max leaned in to kiss her. As his mouth teased and flirted with hers, she felt his palm gently coaxing her leg open. She let it fall to the side, her official surrender. His warm fingertips grazed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. His mouth broke from hers as he drew even closer. He turned his head to watch.
Like a match held to an open flame, Fallon’s pleasure flashed violently into life as his middle finger stroked her clit. She made a startled noise and he froze.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
“No, don’t stop.”
He nodded and touched her again, just as lightly. She sucked in a breath, shocked by the feeling. He kept the stroking light, just a whisper of his coarse fingertips against her tender skin.
“That feels good,” she whispered. Understatement of the year.
“Good.” He added another fingertip, the tiniest amount of pressure. “You’re so soft.”
“You’re not.” She smiled at him, catching his eye. “Your fingers are…”
“Like sandpaper?”
“No. They’re wonderful.” She fell silent, awed by his continued exploration. Awed by her own willingness and pleasure.
His touch moved lower, then lower still, until he parted her gently, and moaned—a raw, animal sound.
“Max.”
His fingers returned to her clit, made it slick, rubbed her faster. The pleasure was alarming. Addictive. As her excitement grew, so did his noises. She heard him breathing, panting, deep sighs colored by that dark baritone. He sat up and knelt beside her, never missing a beat. He spread his free palm across her mound, his thumb picking up the refrain and freeing his masterful, wet fingers to find her core once again. He touched her with all the artistry she’d seen in his craft.
“Keep going,” she whispered.
He obeyed, rubbing her clit until she thought she’d catch fire. With his other hand he entered her—two fingers penetrating, cautious and slow, then exploring. She bucked against him, toes curling, hands clenching into fists.
He held her eyes with his. “Is this okay?”
She was lost for words but her sounds communicated her extreme approval. His touch went deeper, the slippery thrust of his fingers making her want him a thousand times more violently than she’d ever wanted anyone else, ever.
“So, this is where you hide your heat,” he murmured.
Fallon’s eyes