Phoebe was sitting up at the head of the bed when Remington stepped past the threshold. She looked over; saw the damp gleam of water at his throat, on his arms, and across his chest. Beads of water dripped on the floor near his bare feet. Wide runnels separated his thick hair where he had plowed it with his fingers. The towel around his waist was riding low. She could make out the intriguing arrow of dark hair and followed it to where it disappeared under the towel’s edge.
He had not taken much time to dry. That made her smile.Hemade her smile. It was one of the moments she held close to her heart.
Phoebe patted the space beside her and threw back the covers to make the invitation clear. She watched him approach, watched his easy walk, the way his hips moved and how the towel shifted, threatened to fall but somehow never did. When he sat on the edge of the bed, she stole the towel from around his neck and dried his back and shoulders. She didn’t touch his hair. She liked the furrows and the curls that lay against his nape like thick black commas.
Remington turned his head, found Phoebe’s mouth waiting for him. She kissed him, parting her lips, touching him with the tip of her tongue. He followed where she led him, which was flat on his back with her hovering above him.
She looked down, searched his face, and imagined she could see her reflection in his unfathomable eyes. Her voice was a husky whisper. “What do you think of this mattress?”
“Very fine.”
“I miss our old place.”
That made him laugh. “Uh-huh.”
She nudged the tip of his nose then his lips. She spoke against his mouth. “I am going to be very bold now.”
“Mm. I hope so.”
She was. He made it easy for her. Nothing she did or wanted to do seemed out of the ordinary because he was so comfortable in his own skin. She called on the memory of lying with him at McCauley’s cabin to guide her when she felt herself faltering. She remembered all the ways he had touched her, all the sensations his touch had provoked, and began there, setting her mouth in the curve of his neck and sipping his skin. The branding was still fresh in her mind, and what she did to him there did not seem so very different.
Phoebe told him that when she lifted her head to examine the mark she’d left on his flesh. Between applications of hot branding kisses, he begged her not to castrate him. She showered him with her laughter instead and left him the weaker for it.
Phoebe set her mouth at the corner of his, teased him with the tip of her tongue, and when he responded, she moved on, tracing the line of his jaw and using her teeth to tug on his earlobe. She whispered against his skin, sometimes telling him what he could expect, sometimes giving him direction.
She led the exploration of his chest with her fingertips and followed it with her lips. She laid her palm against his heart, felt the strong steady beat, and the change of that rhythm when her free hand slipped under his towel. Watching him, she delicately walked her fingers up his inner thighand brushed his thickening erection with her knuckles. She saw it in his face, his need for something more substantial than the fleeting touch of her flesh against his. Lifting her eyebrows, she posed the silent question, and when he nodded, she used her teeth to pluck open his towel and found him with her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Phoebe put his cock to the hot suck of her mouth. Her tongue laved the tip, circled, and drew him in. Her damp hair fell forward over her shoulders, draped the sides of her face, and swept his skin as she moved. She felt his fingers sift through her hair, brush it away from her cheek. His hand drifted to her shoulder, and his touch was both firm and gentle. The cadence of his breathing changed. She altered the slant of her mouth, manipulated his sac with her fingers, and then made a fist around the length of his penis below her lips. Her palm was almost as warm as her mouth, and it was as if she had taken all of him. She knew that because he told her so, but not all at once. What he said came in fits and starts between harshly indrawn breaths and sips of air. His fingers found her hair again, wrapped a thick coil around his hand, and he held her like that until his body jerked and jerked away.
It was his turn, then, and in movements both fluid and fierce, Remington released the rope of her hair, caught her under her arms, and wrestled her onto her back. Phoebe’s knees came up, her neck arched, and the breath she had been inhaling lodged in her throat. It did not seem at all strange to her that her body welcomed him outside of her consciousness. She wanted him, wanted him inside her, and her arms and legs and mouth all acted in concert to make that happen as though directed by a force outside her.
She was unaware of losing her towel until he flung it over the side of the bed, and she did not have a sense of her own nakedness until his mouth closed over her nipple. She hugged him with her thighs; her fingers slipped into hisdamp hair. Her hips rose and fell, at first in response to the rhythm he set, and then to one that was hers. He followed her lead. Time seemed to slow. When he lifted his head, she searched his face, saw the evidence of self-denial in his taut features and in his clear, steady gaze. He did not hide his need from her but neither would he allow it to overcome him, and this was his gift to her, would always be his gift.
She was safe.
“Don’t wait,” she whispered. “Come. I want you to come.”
It was her words as much as the contractions of her body that forced his surrender. The slow, measured thrust of his hips became quick and shallow. He arched his back, pushed himself up and in, and gave up a guttural cry as he shuddered with violent pleasure. He collapsed and lay heavily against her for a time, unable to move. It felt like an act of will to breathe just then.
His face was buried in the curve of her neck, and when he spoke, his moist breath shifted a few strands of her cocoa-colored hair. “Sorry,” he said, and started to rise.
“No. Not yet,” she said. “Please, not yet.”
He stayed.
It struck Phoebe that she had never known her body until she had known his. Somehow, lying under him in just this way, Remington’s long, hard frame, his tight belly and broad shoulders, the slim hips, and firm thighs, all of it defined the shape of hers. She was aware of the hollow of her throat, the delicate underside of her wrists, the way her breasts flattened against his chest, and the contrast of her pale complexion against the sun-beaten color of his. He made her understand how her body was meant to accommodate the presence of a man—this man—and that there could be pleasure in the accommodation. What had been largely a mystery to her was now revealed, and that it had been revealed to her with real reverence for her woman’s body, with passion and compassion, made her want to weep.
“Phoebe?” When Remington lifted himself away this time, she did not stop him. He yanked on the covers tangled at their feet and then stretched beside her, levering himself on oneelbow so he could see her face. “Are you all right?” She nodded, but in a way that he found unconvincing. “What is it?”
She shrugged, though not in a careless manner.
Remington used a forefinger to nudge her chin his way. Her eyes shifted from the ceiling to him. “Did I hurt you?”
Shocked that he even thought it might be a possibility, Phoebe found her voice. “No!”
Her vehemence was reassuring, but it did not help him understand the bent of her mind. “I’m not good at this,” he said. “You have to tell me.”
