Page 23 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
I looked dubiously at his slacks and rumpled shirt. Not a tuxedo, at least, but he clearly outshone me.
“I’m sorry, Drew. Honestly. I know I should have told him by now.”
“No, it’s okay. I understand why you haven’t yet. He’d just meddle. It’s nice to be with you…just the two of us.”
“That’s exactly it,” I said, relieved that he felt it too. The sad truth was that if he were looking for a woman with sophistication and charm, that wasn’t me. I was just Rose, the sister of Philip, the silent dancer on the stage. I still wasn’t sure what he’d found in me of value, but I had enough faith in him to know he had. With him, I was worth more than how I looked or whose blood I shared.
“Drew,” I said. “I’m not that hungry.”
“God, me neither.” His expression made the words a lie. He looked hungry…starving…dying for a sip, and I felt it too. Ragged inside, empty. Waiting for something to fill me up, and there was the hallway. His bedroom was only ten feet away. All I needed was courage.
“I have something to show you. But maybe more private.” I laughed a little, at myself. “Somewhere a little darker than this. I’m not sure I’m ready for a lit room yet.”
He didn’t laugh. His face was somber, the lines of his face traced in charcoal shadow. His eyes, though. They were full of compassion, brimming with gratitude. Trust me, and I’ll never fail you, they promised, while my heart beat with my answer. He’d always been asking, I realized, with those sexy, soulful eyes, but he’d only moved forward when the answer had changed to yes.
He took my hand and led me down the hallway. In his bedroom, he clicked on the bathroom light, lending a glow to the room. Enough to see by, as I stood in the middle. Enough to show him, as I toed off my sneakers and pushed down my pants. Years of professional dance training, but I lacked grace completely. I must have made the strangest striptease, yanking off my dumpy clothes. Hopefully the endgame would be worth it.
I stood still and allowed him to inspect me. Black lace pushed my breasts together, creating cleavage I was usually too small for. The sheer fabric of my thong rubbed against my smooth skin.
The light rained down on me, while he stood in the shade, his expression obscure.
“Is this okay?” My voice sounded anxious.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said roughly. “Are you asking me that?”
I laughed shortly. “I guess so.”
“I just need to… No. I need to stand here until I can touch you without falling all over you and… I need to make it good this time.”
“I liked it before,” I said softly. I liked watching him enjoy himself. I only wished he’d finished inside me. I wanted to hear him groan while his weight hovered over me, while his head hung beside mine, while our muscles strained together in a timeless dance.
“On the bed.”
I climbed onto the dark blue bedspread and glanced back at him. He groaned. Then he stalked toward me, shedding his clothes as he came. He left his briefs on this time. I glanced down and then up, a question in my eyes.
A brief shake of the head. No, not yet.
His hand started at my ankle, skimming the outside. Almost innocent, that touch. Wondering and kind. He felt higher, along my thigh. His hand skipped lightly over the scrap of thong at my hip, like a pebble over the water’s surface. I shivered as his hand skated over my side and ended below my breasts.
Our eyes met. In his, I saw a battle being waged. Control and wildness. Gentleness and relief.
“Take me,” I whispered, trusting him to understand. Do what you will, make me feel.
He transformed in front of me. A killing blow for whatever chivalry might have fought. His fist wrapped around my ankle, tugging me closer to the edge. The other hand spread me wide. I knew without being able to see that the black fabric did little to cover me. Especially now that it was wet.
“I should kiss you first,” he said, his voice like gravel.
I licked my lips in anticipation. At the same time, my hips lifted slightly off the bed.
His eyes flickered with heat. “La
ter. First I need to do this.”
He bent his head and pressed a kiss to the top of my mound. Chaste and sweet, yet my sex clenched, begging to be filled. He tugged the thong aside and slid his tongue between the slippery lips of my sex. I gasped at the warm contact, letting my head fall back.
His tongue worked on me, speaking silent, dirty words and painting their portraits in my head. He lashed at my clit until I cried out; then he delved lower and deeper, teasing me until I cried out again, this time in frustration. He replaced his mouth with fingers then, slipping them inside me while his tongue curled around my clit.
“Oh God. Oh please. I need…”
