His fist moved to the base of his cock. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue."
Her eyes widened when his cock slipped between her lips and filled her mouth. He tasted salty, earthy, and she knew she’d never get enough. She sucked in her cheeks and lifted her tongue, exploring his width.
He threw his head back and groaned. "That's so good. So fucking good."
She preened and doubled her efforts. It was awkward at first, but the messier she was, the more excited Tommy grew. She tossed aside her inhibitions and concentrated on using every part of her mouth on every part of his cock.
"Your breasts," he panted. "I want to fuck them."
She licked his cock one more time, then pulled backward. “Show me what to do.”
A moment later, her breasts, dripping with soapy suds, were pressed tightly around his cock. Tommy slowly rocked his hips, moving faster as they found their rhythm. Imogen alternated between watching the head of his cock surge toward her chin and staring up at Tommy with equal fascination. His muscles bunched and rippled with each movement, his face tightening with pleasure. He was magnificent.
“I’m going to finish.” He jerked his cock free and fisted it in a swift flurry of strokes. He gave a throaty groan, and Imogen watched open-mouthed as white ropes of his seed hit the bathwater.
“That was…absolutely extraordinary,” she breathed.
He cupped her cheek with his free hand, his gaze fierce. “You were extraordinary, Genie love. If you only knew how much I—” He broke off with a slight shake of his head.
Spellbound, she asked, “How much you what?”
But he only rearranged his features into a leer. “How much I want to do it again.”
She blinked and let out a weak laugh. “Then I should probably eat another biscuit.”
“That’s my girl.” He winked and took a step backward. “Wait there.”
“But I’ll get lonely,” she protested.
“Only until I grab the towel.”
“Ah. Wouldn’t want to get the floor wet.”
“You know me so well.” He lifted the towel from its nearby wall hook and circled near.
Imogen rose to her feet and held out her hand, only to have Tommy brush it aside. He patted her dry himself and then swept her into his arms. She gasped as their skin collided, and marveled at the fresh rush of desire that swept through her body. He set her down on the edge of the bed and gestured for her to get in.
“What about my nightgown?”
“No need. I’ll keep you warm.” Before she could grasp his intent, he fetched the copy of Sherlock Holmes and climbed under the covers. “Are you coming?”
She crawled up the bed, noting—and reveling in—Tommy’s intent and frank admiration. He’d done so much for her, made her so happy. If only she had more time to prepare something as well. As she settled against the headboard and arranged the blankets around her, she spotted a bit of cloth sticking out from the edge of her pillow. She did have something she could give him.
“Do you remember the time my father forbade me from going to the art festival?”
“He never understood how important it was to you.”
“But you understood.” She lifted the scrap of worn linen. “You gave me your best handkerchief to wipe my tears.”
He rubbed the linen between two fingers, and a curious expression crossed his face. “You kept it all these years?”
“Despite everything that happened between us, it has always brought me comfort. It reminds me—for good or for bad—that someone, somewhere, will appreciate me for who I am.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because now I know our falling out was hard for you, too.” She indicated the corner of the handkerchief where there were two intertwining sets of initials, one in faded blue thread and the other in a newer, more vibrant red. “I don’t know what will happen to us when we leave this cabin, but I hope that you can look at our initials together and know how important you are to me.”
“Thank you, I—I—” He coughed and rubbed a hand over his chin. “That’s very thoughtful.”
