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“Well, I was thinking about Wuthering Heights. Emily wrote that one. It was kind of out there for its time because Heathcliff was so violent and ungentlemanly, and Catherine would go into these fits of rage, driven crazy with sexual desires. It was very unladylike, you know,” she said, tossing a tiny smile at him. “See, Catherine had to choose between Heathcliff, who was her soul mate, and Edgar, who was the better, safer choice.”
“Sounds familiar,” he grumbled.
She responded by wrapping her arm around his torso. “The Brontë sisters are interesting writers, but Emily’s my favorite, and I was remembering some of her words.”
“Like what?” If he could, he’d shrink down and crawl inside Bronte’s brain to learn what made her tick, but he’d settle for this.
“Um.” She hesitated for a moment then cleared her throat. “‘If you ever looked at me once with what I know is in you, I would be your slave.’”
He huffed. “Oh yeah. I get that one.”
She angled her head back to meet his eyes. “Are you saying you’d be my slave?”
Without a doubt. Yes. “Absolutely.”
She raised a challenging eyebrow, and he decided to play along, moving to sit at her feet. Her guileless blue eyes flickered to her sparkly red toenails and back to his gaze, instructing him without words. He cradled one foot in his hands, massaging the insole with his thumbs before pressing a kiss to it.
She made a sound that let him know he should keep going, and he did, trailing his lips from her ankle, up her calf, to the inside of her knee, and finally her thigh. She moaned again, her eyelids closing in pleasure, and he nearly lost it as her hands moved to her own breasts, kneading them.
Yes, he was most definitely her slave.
She moved her fingers down her stomach to dig into his hair, pulling his mouth where she wanted. His lips found her swollen and needy, and he kissed her there until she called out his name, deep and uninhibited.
He hauled himself up, planting his palms on the mattress, to rake his eyes over her skin, damp and flushed red. She smoothed her hands over his chest as he entered her, and he watched her gaze travel over his body, her fingers blazing a trail over his shoulders, arm, and hips. She worshipped him with whispered words, blessed him with light kisses, and sanctified him with her body. He may have been a sinner, but she made him feel holy. There was no way for her goodness not to lift him up when they were this close.
Sated and exhausted with pleasure, Chris lay down, coming to rest between Bronte’s thighs, his head against her chest. “I can’t get enough of you. You are…” He kissed her breastbone before settling his chin there to look up at her. “Everything.”
She closed her eyes, saying quietly, “‘He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’”
Stretching up to take in her face, he stroked the length of her nose until she opened her eyes. “That’s beautiful.”
She ran her fingers through his hair and down his cheek, quoting again, “‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’”
