Chapter Thirteen
Fin
His tongue isn’t pierced anymore.
And I don’t know how I feel about that. I liked it, sure, but maybe it was better served as a memory, because I can’t imagine his kiss being any hotter or more enjoyable. I’ve never been pushed up against a wall, or held hostage by hips and a pair of lips. He must have had a lot of practise in the intervening years, not that I’m going to ask. No need to encourage the epic loser vibe tonight.
The cottage is still chocolate box perfect, even on this cold winter’s night. Evergreen vines hang over the entrance and twist around large leaded windows, rising up as far as a chimney built to look more like a turret. I shiver under the cover of Rory’s jacket, though not only from the cold. I was shocked when he’d slipped it over my shoulders. I can’t remember the last time anyone but my friends showed me any concern. Warm from his body and smelling heavenly, I can’t help but pull the lapels under my nose for one more inhale.
Damn. He caught me checking out his ass.
‘Are you smelling my jacket?’ The porch light highlights the knife of his cheekbones, along with a tiny scar near his eyebrow as he turns, ignoring for a moment his quest to open the solid front door.
‘Actually, I was wiping my nose,’ I say snuggling back in to the fabric, because if I don’t, I think I might be at risk of reaching out to touch him. To make sure this is real and not some trick or dream; my mind bringing the past us to now.
He smiles, turning back to try another key, a moment later pushing the door open and pulling me into the warmth.
The hallway still smells of beeswax polish. It looks the same, sort of warm and shadowy, the only source of light coming from a room somewhere beyond. I don’t have time to register much more than these small facts before Rory’s hard body is pressed against the length of mine, contrasting with the actions of his soft mouth. His kisses are all tender lips and subtle strokes of tongue, and much less urgent than outside. When I made the split decision to more or less proposition him, I’d imagined it would be strange, kissing him after so many years of kissing someone else.
It’s slightly disconcerting to find the opposite.
It’s raw and heady and unravelling. I’m not missing his teenaged tongue piercing, absolutely melting under his touch. Actually melting—wobbling knees, heated insides and everything. Physically, this man is so very different to Marcus. No, I won’t let my mind go there. He’s so tall it’s almost as though he looms over me, and this in itself provides its own kind of thrill. But it’s not only that; the differences are also in the subtleties of his touch. The way his hands slide down my body. The way his tongue dances across my lips.
One moment we’re kissing and the next we’re hit by the lash of lust, almost devouring one another; our kisses turning desperate and frantic as we battle to be closer, to inhabit, to steal breath from the other’s lungs.
‘Nbedroom?’ I mumble against his mouth. I don’t want to stop, it’s more like I physically need to go on. It’s clear neither of us is interested in any kind of precursor; a drink or a chat. We’re both down for cutting to the chase and abandoning anything in the way of that.
‘No.’ His response is little more than a rasp as his kisses travel down my neck, his hands, one minute spanning my waist before travelling down to my ass.
My head falls back without cognisance, my groan vibrating under his lips, prompting him to bite. The moment is sheer sensation overload; the smell of his aftershave, the hardness pressing between my legs, the soft rasp of his stubble against my cheek.
My clit pounding between our bodies like a drum.
‘Oh, God.’ It’s a drawn out sound of appreciation, rather than a plea for divine intervention, as his teeth find my neck again, my body responding and writhing against his, greedy and desperate for relief. Rory’s curse is more base as he pushes me up against the wall, some kind of wainscoting or moulding hard at my back.
‘I need to be inside you.’ His voice is somewhere between a breath and a groan, his hands sliding to the high hem of my skirt.
‘Oh, yes please,’ I return breathlessly, grounding myself with my palms against the wall as my body begins to tremble. My whole body. Aching. Shivering. I want him so badly I can almost taste it. Neither his head nor his hands move from their task though his eyes track up from their focus on my thighs. His features are stronger in the shadows; his easy, confident smiles replaced by something that speaks of solid determination.
Is it wrong to think he looks a little dangerous and to be turned on by it?
‘You like to be bossed about.’ He doesn’t exactly ask, his smile a little feral now. ‘Dominated.’
My gaze flicks from his knowing one to his wet, warm mouth. ‘I—I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think I don’t.’ Did that even make sense? My heart trips and I know it’s not fear. And his smile right now? It looks like I’ve just handed him the keys to my chastity belt. I exhale a convulsing, quivering breath, confused by the caustic rebuke I can’t find
‘So, what are you?’ he asks, eyes back on his task of gliding my skirt slowly up my legs. I feel my brows furrow, my stomach knotted at where he could be going with this, because I desperately don’t want to bring up the w word. ‘Are you a good girl or a bad—’ His words halt as he skims his hands down the front of my black hose covered thighs. ‘Tights,’ he says, not bothering to hide his delight.
‘You didn’t strike me as the fetish kind.’ Dear God, please don’t let him have the hots for hose.
And then he smiles that dangerous smile as he begins to pull them down. ‘A useful item of clothing, these. Binding wrists and ankles. Tying pretty girls.’
‘Not this girl,’ I return, though I don’t think I’m the only one who hears the libidinous drop in my tone.
‘At least, not the first time,’ he purrs.
Before you can say hose whore, my tights are magically mid-thigh and his knuckle is brushing down the front of my satin panties. And I’m whimpering, widening my stance, opening for him.
‘First time?’ I reply through a sigh. His touch is electric, my body jolting against his hand.
