Page 155 of Caterina
My cock, however, is not.
It is still rock-hard, an insistent pressure against her hip.
I want her.
I want to be inside her more than I have wanted my next breath.
But I wait.
I will take this at her pace. And if she falls asleep before anything else happens tonight, I am okay with that.
Just having her here is enough.
I stroke her hair, and she lets out a contented sigh before lifting her head. Her eyes are soft, a little dazed, but clear. Her lips are swollen and red from my kisses. My cock throbs in response.
She smiles, a slow, sexy, knowing smile.
"My turn," she says, and before I can stop her, she shifts down my body.
I catch her shoulders. "Caterina, you don't have to."
She looks up at me, her eyes darkening with something that looks a lot like challenge. "I know. I want to."
She doesn't give me a chance to argue further.
She trails her lips down my throat, down my chest, her tongue flicking out to taste my skin. Her hands follow, her fingers exploring the contours of my muscles, tracing the lines of my scars.
She is worshipping my body with her touch, and I am undone.
My hands fist in the sheets, a desperate attempt to hold on to some semblance of control.
When she gets to my injury, my fists tighten further in anticipation of the pain.
But her touch becomes even more gentle, if possible. Her lips press a soft kiss to the bruised skin beside the dressing. Her fingers dance around it, never touching it directly.
The gesture is so tender, so unexpectedly intimate, that it almost hurts more than the wound itself.
This is yet another new side of Caterina. Gentle and caring.
She doesn't give it brief attention and move on, either. She takes her time about it, moving her lips over every inch of the skin around it. Then I realize she's testing. Finding my boundaries. Making sure she doesn't cause me more pain.
Her expression is serious as she studies the wound, the bruising, the ugly purple and black of it. She seems to be memorizing it.
She is not looking at me as a client. Or a lover. She is looking at me as a man who was shot protecting her. She's trying to process it, I think.
Her eyes are filled with a complex mix of emotions. Guilt. Awe. Fear. Gratitude.
She's thinking about the last couple of days, too.
I can't stand it.
My fingers go under her chin, gently tilting her head up to look at me.
"Hey," I say, my voice softer than I intend. "I'm fine."
She nods, but her eyes are still serious.
I know what she's doing. She's trying to fix this, too. She's trying to take away the pain with her touch, the same way she tried to give me pleasure to make me forget.
