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He kicked them off, and they landed with twin thuds against the wall; his socks followed, as did the discarded slacks.
I gazed all the way up his body, fascinated with the play of light through the window. The shadows of the trees chased the moon's glow across his skin, turning him into a statue both bronze and silver.
His head thrown back, his hair swirled across his shoulders. His earring swayed, mixing with the strands. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides while he waited with complete trust for my next move.
I just looked at him, memorizing this moment forever.
On my knees in front of him, the position should have been one of submission, but it wasn't. I was completely clothed; he was completely at my mercy - naked and aroused, the most intimate part of him bared to me. Leaning forward, I closed my mouth over his tip.
He didn't groan, moan, or make any sound at all beyond a soft sigh. He didn't grab my head and show me what to do or mutter instructions about speed, pressure, technique. He did nothing that every other man of my acquaintance had ever done in a situation like this. Malachi Cartwright just let me be.
I took my time, learning everything about him. His taste, his texture, the shape and length of him. How he fitted best, when he didn't, what made him swell and nearly come. I took him to the edge, retreated, then took him to the edge once more. And
through it all, he never touched me. Not once.
It was the best sex I never had.
I increased the speed and pressure, but at the last instant he backed away. I reached for him, but he stayed me with a slash of his hand.
His shoulders heaved as he fought free of the tide. I sat on the bed. "You didn't have to stop," I said.
"I did, or there'd be nothing left for you. "
"I don't mind. "
He lifted a brow. "You're not ready?"
I hesitated. I'd enjoyed being in control. Was I ready for him to be?
"Shall I get the rope then?"
I couldn't help but smile. He was so easy with me, with this. I wished that I could be.
"Lie back, Claire; I want to do something for you. "
For me, not to me. I did as he asked.
His shadow blotted out the light, and for an instant I became almost overwhelmed with bad memories. But he murmured to me as he might murmur to his horse, soft words in the language of the Rom, with perhaps a little Gaelic thrown in, and soon all I knew was him.
He went down on his knees, nudged my legs apart, leaning over to lift the hem of my top and press his mouth to my stomach. The muscles fluttered to life.
Tracing his palms over my hips, down my flanks, he then ran his thumbs up my quivering thighs, sliding them outward across the sensitive line where pelvis and leg became one.
I opened to him, and his mouth came down hot and hard upon me, just like the dream, except he wasn't made of mist and I still wore all my clothes. The thin cotton of my pajama bottoms didn't provide much of a barrier, which was just fine with me. He continued to put pressure right where I needed it the most until he had me begging, just as he'd promised. I was the one who pushed off the pants, kicking at them frantically until they hung from one ankle.
Then his mouth and his tongue were doing innovative things as I tangled my fingers in his hair and held on. His earring tickled the inside of my thigh, and my breath caught between a laugh and a moan. I shifted just enough so that at the next stroke of his tongue I was no longer able to laugh or moan, only come.
He didn't stop, pushing harder, stroking longer, drawing out the orgasm until I didn't know if there had been one or perhaps two, and I didn't really care.
When the tremors died, he pressed a kiss to my stomach, just below my belly button, before inching back. My hands slid limply to the mattress, and I opened my eyes.
Mist swirled through the room, so thick I could no longer see anything.
Not even him.
Chapter 22
I shot into a sitting position, heart racing. Was I dreaming again?
