Ulterior Motives (21 page)

He kissed the palm of her hand, the sweet tips of her breasts, and the soft hollow between them. He ran his tongue around the pink areola of a tightly puckered nipple, then kissed it again. She panted, and the sudden rise and fall of her breasts drove him wild. He slid one knee between her legs and pressed it against the apex of her thighs, feeling the teasing silkiness of her pubic hair and the hot wetness it shielded.

“Please,” Shelley murmured, not even sure what she was asking for. Only for it to continue, for it to go on, for him to keep touching her like this. She felt his mouth, hot and wet, slide across her breast and fasten around her nipple. The hand that held one of hers squeezed convulsively. She arched upward and pulled his head down, and she pushed her aching feminine core against his hard knee. She moaned and writhed against him and showed him without shame how much pleasure he was giving her.

He tugged at her nipple, his tongue rough, his teeth gentle, his lips tender. He let go of her hand to massage her other breast with firm, possessive strokes of increasing urgency. He changed his position so that his hips slid smoothly between her legs to let her feel his hard, throbbing desire for her pressing against her waiting flesh.

Shelley sobbed, unable to contain the feelings welling up inside her. She slid her hands down his back and dug her fingers into the hard, tense flesh of his buttocks. She ground her hips against him in silent urging.

His shaking hand found hers and guided her to him. “Show me where you want me to go. Put me inside you,” he pleaded hoarsely.

She did so eagerly, greedily rising to meet his first strong thrust. She was so small, so hot and tight, that he tried to enter her slowly, but she wouldn’t let him. She arched toward him, relishing the sensations as he slid forcefully inside her body, pulling him deeper, wanting him to thrust into her very soul.

They established a fast, urgent rhythm, perfectly attuned to each other. They writhed against each other, murmuring endearments and harsh compliments, their sweat-slick bodies gliding together and apart in perfect harmony, in and out, up and down.

“Deeper,” she begged, “
deeper.
Harder. Oh! Oh, yes, yes... Like that...”

He was ferocious and tender at once, a demon lover, a dark angel. He was the lover she had never even imagined, too erotic for dreams, too earthy for fantasy. She shared every shred of herself with him and felt him accept her with greedy delight and offer up himself in return.

“Hot, oh, Shelley, so hot, so... soft,” he muttered hoarsely, his mouth moving roughly against her neck, his hands touching every part of her they could reach.

Suddenly she felt her whole body flooding with fire, desire giving over to satisfaction, earth giving way to heaven. “Oh, Ross, I’m...
Oh, Ross.”

In the eye of the storm at last, she gave in to the luscious liquid feelings, melting and drowning in a long, wavy burst of pleasure that sent her mind spinning with the beauty of it and fed her body with everything it had ever hungered for. She felt him shudder and collapse on top of her, felt his heat pour into her as he trembled and harshly whispered her name, heard his long, ragged groan of masculine satisfaction.

Long, long minutes later, when his chest had stopped heaving and the world had stopped flying apart around the two of them, Ross pulled together what precious little strength he had left and rolled off her small frame, pulling her with him so that she rested against him. She curled around him and nuzzled him affectionately, a contented purring sound coming from deep inside her.

He smiled softly, feeling happier than he’d ever felt in his life. He had pleased her, he thought with thoroughly masculine delight. He had wanted nothing in life so much as to make her writhe and sob and purr with pleasure, and even so, he was astonished at how glad he was to have succeeded.

“You look smug,” Shelley said lazily, too satisfied to sound critical.

He opened his eyes to find her looking up into his face. He realized that he had never shared with anyone the kind of intimacy he had just enjoyed with her. After what had just happened between them, he knew he’d never be able to hide anything from her again. He couldn’t imagine even wanting to. So he let her see the open vulnerability in his heart, his astonished pleasure, his sweet satisfaction and, well, yes, his smug delight.

Her love-soft eyes darkened ever so slightly. “If you look at me like that, I’m going to make inappropriate demands,” she warned.

He grinned. “Just try me.”

She sighed and laid her head back on his shoulder. “In about an hour.”

“Make it a half hour, and you’ve got a deal.”

“You’re such a braggart.”

“Tu m’inspires.”
He closed his eyes and savored the feel of her. Her tumbling hair covered his shoulder and tickled his chin, her smooth cheek rubbed absently against his chest, her breasts pressed against his ribs, her soft thigh rested intimately between his legs. Of their own volition, his hands started traveling over her with caressing wonder, discovering details he had missed in the fury of their passion.

Shelley sighed deeply, feeling a wonderful feminine satisfaction in knowing he couldn’t keep his hands off her. The feeling was mutual, actually, and she lazily began exploring him, fascinated, enthralled, curious, fiercely proud of the body she only half realized she was swiftly starting to think of as her personal property.

“J’adore tes cheveux
...
ta peau
...
tes seins
...
ton dos
...” he murmured absently, naming her parts as he explored them, loving everything he discovered. He was glad she understood French, since the words seemed more appropriate, more intimate in that language.

As their strength returned, their curiosity grew more insatiable. She sat up finally, wanting to see everything she’d been touching, wanting to see his face as they touched each other. He watched her with pleased, heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze slid below her waist and his eyes widened. Her thighs were slightly pink where he had lain between them, irritated from the friction between their overheated bodies.

“Was I too rough?” he asked.

“No.” Her voice was certain, her smile positively feline. The cat that had gotten the cream. “It was...”

“Special,” he finished for her.
 

She nodded. He kissed her hand and held it against his cheek. He released it and traced an imaginary line down her breast, lightly stroking the nipple, which hardened instantly at his touch. In astonishment he realized his own body was already hardening in response, wanting her again, excited by her quick response to him, intrigued by her lush beauty.

“Come here,” he said gruffly, pulling her down to the pillows.

She glanced down his body and her eyes sparkled with mischief and desire. “So you weren’t bragging after all. Can I count on this all the time, or is this a special occasion?”

“I think you’re to blame,” he informed her.

“Hey,
guapo
, does this mean you’re glad to see me?”

“Ti voglio bene,”
he murmured.

“Is that one of the dozen phrases your friend once taught you for meeting Italian women?” she asked suspiciously.

“Uh-huh.”

“That phrase is pretty specific, Ross. You must have made friends awfully quickly with the girls in Milan.”

“I’m very charming,” he reminded her, losing interest in the subject. “Do you like this? Ah, yes, I can see that you do.”

“Oh... yes, I do. Your hands...”

“What about my hands?”

“They have no shame,” she said in a strangled voice.

“Neither do my lips.”

Shelley gasped as he proved his point. Suddenly she was breathing rapidly again, her body aching, her heart demanding, as if they hadn’t just finished making love.

“Slow,” he whispered against her hot flesh. “This time let’s do it slowly.”

“Yes,” Shelley agreed breathlessly.

“And I want to watch you this time.”

She nodded, unable to speak, unable to think, able only to feel and enjoy. She moaned pleadingly.

“Tell me what you want,” he urged, a new intimacy, a new caring in the request. 

“Like that... Just like...” A long time later she begged,
“Please.”

“What?”

“I want... you,” she gasped.

“Inside you?”

“Yes!”

“Like this?” His tongue was hot and clever and bold.

“Ohh...”
She trembled in a sudden, shattering climax. She felt him move against her, felt his fingers take the place of his tongue so he could watch her as he had said he wanted to. And, stunned at her own boldness, amazed at the wildness he stirred in her, she let him watch without shame as she accepted his gifts.

He kissed her tenderly after her body had quieted.
“Belle, comme tu es belle,”
he murmured, and she felt as beautiful as he said she was.

He rolled over on his back and pulled her on top of him. He grasped her hips, raised her in the air, and lowered her gently to his waiting body, arching his back as she wiggled to accommodate his size and hardness. He closed his eyes, fighting for control as she squirmed from side to side and pushed herself down until the curly reddish hair between her thighs met and mingled with the black hair between his.

She stilled at last, sitting above him, watching his face, savoring this moment of their union. He opened his eyes.

“Slowly,” he reminded her in a passion-roughened voice.

She nodded, too full of tenderness and anticipation to answer him. They made love with exquisite, excruciating slowness, watching each other, relishing the pleasure they brought each other, stopping when they felt themselves approaching the edge, and then starting over again.

The sky darkened outside the window, but inside Shelley’s bedroom, time came to a standstill. She didn’t know how many times they stopped and started in their mating dance, how many times their bodies surged together in the irresistible rhythm of love, how many times they reached out to touch and fondle each other. They whispered to each other, giving and taking pleasure with frankness, with a freedom that Ross had never known, with a lack of inhibition that Shelley had never imagined.

Their breath grew so harsh they could no longer speak. The sky grew so dark that they could no longer see each other’s eyes. Shelley’s body gleamed with perspiration in the moonlight, and Ross’ chest was damp and hot. They finally reached a point where they couldn’t wait, couldn’t hold out, couldn’t bear the fine torture of near-climax any longer, and they let the flood of soul-searing pleasure engulf them. Shelley cried out and collapsed against him, sobbing, letting him crush her in his arms as shudders racked his body. Wave after wave of fire washed through her, burning her to cinders, leaving nothing in its wake but exhaustion mingled with the greatest satisfaction she’d ever known.

“You’re still in your robe,” Ross said, entering the apartment later that evening. They had dozed and showered together, then he had gone home to pick up some clothes. Neither of them had questioned that he would spend the rest of the weekend at Shelley’s apartment. She could barely stand to let him out of her sight for ten minutes, and the hotly possessive glitter in his eyes confirmed that he felt the same way.

“I saw no point in getting dressed,” she informed him, “since you’ll probably rip off my clothes and ravish me again as soon as I’m done feeding you.”

“Hmm, very sensible, as usual. What are we eating?” He groaned when he saw the cardboard containers sitting on the kitchen table. “After the good time I’ve shown you tonight, couldn’t you have done better than leftover Chinese?”

“It’s not leftover. I just ordered it.”

He frowned at her bathrobe. “How did you get this without getting dressed?”

“I had it delivered, of course.”

“Did the delivery boy see you like this?” he demanded.

Shelley looked down at her thick, floor-length, terry-cloth robe with the ragged hem and sighed. “Relax. I’m not a picture of glamour and seduction in this thing, Ross.”

“You are to me,” he said.

“Get that look out of your eyes,” she chided. “I’m starved.” She turned away from him and started opening the cardboard containers. Ross slipped his arms around her.