Page 85 of Strange Familiars
I lean forward so we’re even closer, our knees ramming up against each other even more. And he leans forward too, so near to me that I can feel the touch of his ragged breath upon my lips. We stay there, our eyes locked on one another, not talking, not moving, our breaths coming fast and shallow.
My stomach seems to be doing a nonstop series of backflips. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t. But my brain seems determined to ignore the alarm bells sounding inside my head.
Are he and I going to kiss…Again?
Harrisford clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Gwendolynne, I—” He stops, and swallows.
Everything below my navel clenches in response to the sound of my name on his lips. I don’t think I’ve heard him say my first name, ever, and there’s roaring in my ears and fogginess in my vision as I tug my fingers from his grasp, grab him by his tie, and roughly close the distance.
He gasps, once, against my lips. But then he groans, his handscoming up to my face, gripping it with a force that makes me almost cry out. As soon as my lips part, his tongue is there, sweeping against mine, and I let go of his tie and grab hold of his collar, pinning him in place as we kiss. And it’s completely ridiculous but the thought suddenly occurs to me that I’mreallyglad I’ve already brushed my teeth.
I let out a giggle against Harrisford’s mouth, and he pulls back suddenly, the corners of his lips tilting up in a grin. “What’s so funny?” he says.
When I don’t answer, he shifts me, so easily, like a doll. And then I’m sitting on his lap, straddling him, his calloused hands sliding up my bare back, caressing my skin in a way that makes every muscle in my body tighten. I gasp, twisting my fingers through his silky hair as our lips crash together again, my hips rocking in time to our kiss, and in my position I can tell he’s either stowed a cattle prod in his trousers or he’s very, very turned on.
My fingers find his tie, loosening it farther even though I don’t really know how, and we break apart just long enough for me to pull it off over his head. Hurriedly, I undo his buttons, pinging one right off in my impatience, and push his shirt off him, almost going to pieces at the feel of his muscular shoulders beneath my hands. The very same shoulders that I’ve ogled many a time, whether clad in coveralls or straining against linen shirts or naked and bare, inside his room. I can’t help but claw at him, my fingernails digging into his skin, my fingertips running over the scars marring his neck and back.
His hands slide down, tightening on my buttocks, and he groans again, into my mouth. “Fuck, Gwendolynne,” he growls, skimming his lips along my jaw, then to my neck, nipping me on the sensitive part, right below my ear. I cry out, my hips flexing against him, harder this time, and I reach down, fingers scrabbling to loosen his belt, to undo his button, to tug down the zipper of his fly…
His hands abruptly leave my backside and gently encircle both of my wrists. “Stop.”
The word is like a bucket of ice, immediately dousing my libido. I sit up, ramrod straight, and stare at him. “What?”
His jaw is clenched, his neck muscles straining, the vein on his forehead distended. “Not tonight,” he grits out, sounding almost like he’s in pain.
Oh my god. I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot who has thrown myself at Harrisford Briggs, the number one male floozy of final year, the rich, pretentious prat who keeps a girl in every city. I try to climb off his lap, but he clamps his hands on my hips, holding me in place.
I’m spiraling now, panic expanding in my chest like a gastric volvulus about to rupture. He…doesn’t want me. I can feel that between my legs he’s definitely hard, and yet…he’s pushing me away?
I must be absolutelyrepulsive.
“I’m sorry. I get it.” I’m floundering, blabbering, so far beyond embarrassed that I may as well be in another county. “I— You—Uh…It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s totally fine—” The worst thought suddenly occurs to me. “It’s the shirt, isn’t it? I swear it’s not dirty. I have more than one shirt, you know. It’s just—it happened to be clean in the wash cycle—”
He cuts me off, his eyebrows knitting. “Chan, trust me—I am not even remotely thinking of your wash cycle.”
“Is it because it’sTwilight, then? Maybe you hateTwilight. You think it’s campy and cringe and…” I draw a deep breath. “Yes, that’s it, I get it now, it’s that you hateTwilight…”
His lips twitch, amused. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
I stop ranting for a bit and gape at him, horrified. He’s familiar with the BBC version ofPride and Prejudice, but he doesn’t knowaboutTwilight? Rich people really do exist in an entirely different stratosphere. “It was only the biggest vampire phenomenon to sweep the western world—” I start, then stop short, aware I’m actually rambling. “Oh, never mind.”
He closes his eyes and gives a long, drawn-out sigh. When he opens his eyes again, he looks resigned. “Remind me—why are we talking about vampires, again?”
I blurt out unthinkingly, “Because we’re talking about why you don’t want to have sex with me.” Then I add, somewhat sheepishly, “and I thought that maybe…maybe it’s my shirt.”
Both of his eyebrows shoot up, and his fingers tighten on my hips, his touch searingly hot against my bare skin. “If it were just the shirt,” he says, and his voice is oddly rough, “I wouldn’t hesitate to rip it off you.”
Desire curls, hot and sharp, in my belly. “Then why?” I’m aware that I’m sounding plaintive, but at this point I’m beyond caring. Harrisford Briggs has a reputation for sleeping around, and I must be the most revolting person ever to be one of the few women he’s rejected. My chest feels caved in; it’s like I can barely breathe. And when I speak again, my voice is small. “It’s me, isn’t it? It’s not the shirt. It’s me. It’s just that you don’t want to fuckme.” I’m almost in tears, and again I try to scramble off him. But he’s too strong, and he keeps me pinned in place on his lap.
“You think I don’t want to fuck you?” He stares at me. “Are you completely insensible to what is happening between my legs?”
I wilt under the force of his gaze. “Then…why?”
“Because it’s late, and I drove for hours to get here, and I have to be up at four if I’m going to make it back in time for class. I desperately need some sleep—”
“Fuck me quickly, then, and then get some sleep.”
Slowly, he slides his hand up my back, under my T-shirt, pressingme even closer until my chest is crushed up against his. “Oh, Gwendolynne,” he says, his voice like liquid velvet, his lips brushing my ear. “When I finally fuck you, I don’t intend on gettinganysleep.”
