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He stopped me, gentle but firm. “No. First…” —his voice became a low growl of lust— ”you.”
I swallowed. There was so much pent-up lust in that one word, like he absolutely could not wait. The bed creaked as he moved and then the backs of his hands brushed my chin as he started to unbutton my fatigue shirt. For a moment, the only sound in the room was our breathing and the soft pop of buttons easing through cloth. Then his hands reached under my shoulders and lifted me, and I shrugged out of the shirt, then unhooked my bra. As I slipped it off, I couldn’t see a thing but I knew he was right there in front of me. For a second, we just sat there, unable to see but knowing our bare skin was only inches apart. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my breasts and hear his breathing quicken as he imagined me—
And then he didn’t have to imagine anymore because he was touching me. I caught my breath as his hands found my breasts and traced every soft curve. The darkness made everything more intense: each brush of his hands sent little silver earthquakes straight to my core, where they turned into slick, liquid heat. Then his fingers found my nipples, slowly stroking the base of each one, experiencing every little bump of the areolae before spiraling upwards to the peaks. I took a shuddering breath, struggling to keep still.
He started kissing me again: slow, hungry kisses, devouring me. He filled his hands with my breasts and began rolling and kneading them in time with the kisses, and I groaned and moved with him, arching my back and grinding my hips. Each kiss, each squeeze of my breasts, rippled down to my core and stoked the heat there a notch higher. Each one made me kiss him back harder, press myself against his body tighter.
He gave another of those growls, grabbed the waistband of my pants and then broke the kiss for a second while he rammed pants and panties down my legs and off in one tangle of fabric, leaving me naked and gasping. His hands found my hips and ass, and as they traced the shape of me, I felt myself tense, insecurities rushing back. What if he thought there was too much of me?
He whispered, a hot little rush in my ear. “You’re goddamn beautiful, Olivia.” He slid his hand up over my hip to my waist. “This curve of you.” His other hand slid down my spine to my ass and squeezed. “And this curve.” He slid both hands up my body to my breasts, cupped and squeezed them. “And these curves. You know what I think of when I look at you, when I feel you?”
“No…”
“I think somebody should be painting your picture. That’s the kind of beauty you have. Minstrels used to write songs about women like you. Guys used to write poems. You’re classic, you’re timeless.”
“I—” That fragile silver balloon in my chest was tugging at its string, wanting to float skyward. “I—But—” I squirmed inside. “But I’m not all…little and slim and—”
His hands gently cupped my cheeks and a thumb brushed my lips, silencing me. “Men start fights over women like that,” he told me. “But they start wars over women like you.”
I felt that silver balloon soar into the heavens. It was such a release of emotion, I just lay there for a moment, unable to speak, my eyes hot. Then I hooked my arms around him and tugged him to me. We kissed and ground together again, my breasts stroking against his chest, and I felt so gloriously free.
One of his knees pressed gently between my legs, opening them, and then his hand slid down my body. I drew in my breath as he cupped me and started to rub.
I had no idea what was coming.
He started with slow strokes of his fingers, until I began to grind my hips and helplessly arch up to meet him. Then he brought his thumb into play, circling and teasing my clit, and I suddenly clutched at his shoulders. I had to feel something solid under my hands because everything was dissolving into rolling, silver-tipped waves of pink pleasure. Oh my God. How is he…?
I’d never felt anything like it before. He had the perfect hands, big and powerful enough to make me feel small, but dextrous as a pianist’s. And he knew exactly how to touch me: he touched me like no one else, including myself. The heat in my core was building and building, expanding within me with each touch of his fingers, and I knew I wouldn’t last long.
But Gabriel was as cunning in bed as he was in everything else. Cunning and evil. He stroked my lips until I was slick and begging, then slowed until the wave subsided. He plunged his fingers into me and teased my g-spot until I locked my legs around his arm, heels digging into the bed, panting, pleading…and then he’d stop and wait for me to calm. Even in the dark, he seemed to be able to read me perfectly, judging from my breathing exactly how close I was. I could feel him grinning down at me, his eyes glittering.
