Mittman, Stephanie (20 page)

"It's
not wet," she said, ashamed of the tremor her own voice held.

"Then
leave it."

She
watched him trying to adjust his frame on the rocks, to find a place where he
and she would both be
comfortable enough. He eased himself down and held out his hand for her patiently.
When she couldn't just stand there anymore, she came to where he was and stood
within his reach. His thumb rubbed back and forth against her ankle forever,
over and over until she found it hard to keep standing.

Propped
up on one elbow, his head only as high as her knee, he drove her ankle crazy,
then began to kiss the inside of her leg, just below the knee. First it was
little kisses, almost pecks, and then he lengthened them, finally sucking her
skin in between his lips. She didn't know when his hand moved from her foot,
but now he rubbed her behind her knee, making her legs buckle and easing her
down beside him.

The
neckline of her blouse was tied with a small string that ran through the casing
and ended in a bow beneath her collarbone. He pulled gently on the end of the
cord, and the bow opened easily beneath his hands. He left the blouse where it
was, trailing the ends of the ribbon against her neck, running his finger along
the edge of the fabric. Then he dipped his head and put his mouth to the cloth,
finding her nipple beneath it easily, and soaked it with his tongue. It was an
exquisite sensation, at once covered and demure, and yet sensuous and wanton.

He
wet the other breast, sucking on the gauze until both her nipples were no
longer hidden beneath it.

"Now
it's wet," he said. "Take it off."

She
pulled it over her head and lay next to him with just her little
twentieth-century panties on, hiding nearly nothing from his gaze.

He
played with her hair, letting it tickle her breasts, running it between his
lips, pulling it off her neck. He touched nothing except her hair until she
went nearly wild with wanting to feel his arms surround her, his
hands on her
breasts, his mouth on her lips. Her uneven breathing made her breasts rise and
fall, and though he stared at them, he didn't make a move to touch them.

She
touched the whiskers on his face, the hair surprisingly soft. Her finger traced
his lips, and he caught it with his mouth and held it gently with his teeth,
letting his tongue run up and down its length. Her whole body was trembling,
and she pushed herself against him, trying to nuzzle closer and closer to his
chest.

"Are
ya eager then, Sweet Mary?" he asked, his voice a whisper above her ear.

"I'm
frightened," she admitted, her eyes searching his and finding compassion
there.

"We
don't have to do this, Mary Grace. We can stop now, put on our clothes, and
move on. We got a lot of ground to cover," he said, but he made no move to
rise. She rested her head against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath
the coarse hairs that tickled her nose. She knew she could say no. Deny him.
But it would be denying herself, and she was so very tired of running from her
feelings.

"No,"
she whispered. "I'm eager."

"What?"
he asked, unable to hear her muffled admission.

"I'm
eager," she said, this time a little stronger. "For what, Sweet Mary?
What is it ya want from me?"

"I...
I ache for you. I don't know what I want. I only know I need it...."

He
leaned over her and covered her mouth with his, cutting off her words. Her lips
were even softer than he expected, especially when he sucked on the bottom one
and then ran his tongue on its soft inside. Still, she didn't part her lips for
him. He let his tongue dance across the seam of her smile, then try to press its
way
beyond. His hand wandered down her stomach and wriggled beneath the piece of
fabric that hid her dark red curls from him.

When
the "oh" he expected escaped her lips, his tongue shot into her
mouth, taking her by surprise. Gently he probed the recesses of her mouth, the
silky insides of her cheeks, the smooth surface of her teeth. Her mouth was
warm, moist, inviting, an imitation of her womanhood that made it hard for him
to breathe without gasping. His tongue invited her back with it into his mouth,
but she didn't follow.

He
stopped kissing her and raised up on one elbow to look at her face. She seemed
divinely happy, but confused about what he could want from her.

"Haven't
you ever kissed like this before?" he asked. She shook her head.

"Well,
what have you done, then?" She shrugged and looked away as if she were
still a schoolgirl. While he had been nearly panting, he thought she might have
been holding her breath. Something was amiss. She'd had a baby, for Christ's
sake.

"Look
at me, Sweet Mary." Wide eyes stared trustingly at him. She was worse than
a virgin. Virgins were just afraid of the unknown. For some reason, she was
afraid of the known. "I ain't gonna hurt you, I promise." -

She
bit her lip slightly and nodded as if she believed him, trusted him.

"The
other time," he tried to explain, "when you were with... him, it hurt
because it was the first time. You understand that? It only hurts the first
time."

Now
she couldn't look at him. He reached across her and lifted her blouse from the
ground, then handed it to her and sat up. Whatever need he had, whatever
desires, they could wait. He wasn't about to make her
do anything she
wasn't of a mind to do. When she didn't move to put on her blouse, he looked
down at her trembling form.

"Please
don't stop," she said in a small voice, her eyes fixed on his chest.
"I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to think that what
happened those times in a small dark room a lot of years ago is all I'm ever
going to know about..."

Those
times. He was going to need to know, but not now. Now all that mattered was her
soft freckled skin and her tentative arms reaching out for him.

"You're
sure then?" She'd said it wasn't rape, but he'd never seen a woman, even a
virgin, more frightened than the woman whose twitching hands clung to his arm.
And he felt that same protective surge that had troubled him before, that need
to make sure she was safe and secure.

"Please,"
she said again.

"Ah,
Sweet Mary mine," he said with an easiness he didn't feel. "Lie back
and let me have my way with ya. I've been dyin' to touch and taste every inch
of you from the moment I felt that fanny of yours under my rein hand."
That much, at least, was true. He didn't know how he'd manage the actual
coupling, but there was so much he could show her before they had to face that,
so much he wanted to share with her, so much he wanted to feel himself, after
all this time.

She
was lying flat on her back, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, waiting
for him to begin. When he did nothing, she opened one eye to see what was
wrong. He smiled at her and just continued to take in the sight. Somewhere
there were three brothers looking to stake him out for the buzzards, but he
wasn't going to meet his maker without first tasting the angel he'd been sent.

He
didn't know where they'd be the next time, if
there'd be a next time, if he'd
be alive tomorrow. But right now she was there with her perfect body, made for
loving, with high, firm breasts and a small waist. Her hips flared, and the
silly little fabric that hid her feminine hair from him only made him want to
see it more. And she wanted and needed him like no one else had ever needed him
before. She needed his gentleness, not his strength, needed his honesty, not
his bravado.

He
put a finger under the band that rode across her belly. It stretched to make
room for him, and he pulled at it until he could see the dark red curls of her
womanhood. He put his hand over the mound, not invading, not exploring, just
letting the warmth pass between them. She arched her back, thrusting her
breasts in the air, and he grudgingly removed his hand and moved it upward,
noting with satisfaction that she smiled when it made contact with her breast.

All
right,
he
thought,
I'll start there. But you'll want me to touch you everywhere before
I'm done. I promise you, Sweet Mary. You'll want me everywhere.

He
ran his finger in a circle just to the outside of the deepening pink until she
squirmed her impatience. Then he moved his finger to just over her nipple,
barely grazing it till it stood erect from her chest. Then he took it between
his thumb and forefinger and rolled it, checking the expression on her face to
make sure he wasn't pressing too hard.

Finally,
he took that breast in his mouth, catching the nipple between his teeth and
biting gently while his hand toyed with her other. She was moaning beneath him,
not even aware of what she wanted until his hand began to trail down toward the
juncture of her legs. He kneaded her soft inner thighs gently, feeling the
tension rise within her. Her hands sought out his shoulders, and she squeezed
him until her nails bit into his flesh.

Slowly
his hand moved up from her thigh until he caught the crotch of the undergarment
with his forefinger. He pulled on it until it slid down to her knees. He eased
her leg up, and she slipped it through the hole and freed herself.

"Good
girl," he encouraged her. "You know
I won't hurt ya."

Then
his hand returned to her dark curls and eased itself between her legs. They
shut tight around him like a vise, and he reluctantly took his mouth from her
breast to ask, "Does that mean you don't want me leaving, or don't want me
staying?"

She
didn't answer with words, but she didn't have to. Her legs opened and she
undulated beneath him, offering all she had at what he knew was a steep price.
He pulled himself up a little and kissed her soundly, pleased when her lips
parted and she welcomed his tongue into her mouth. Back and forth his tongue
went, imitating what was to come between them, until finally her tongue began
to chase his back into his mouth, and he rolled onto his back, taking her with
him so that she lay against the length of his body.

One
hand held her head to his, encouraging her kiss, telling her how much he
welcomed her boldness. The other arm settled her against him, nestling his
manhood between her thighs. She pushed herself against him, and responded to
his rhythm with hip movements of her own.

Her
breathing was coming in short bursts, and he could feel the moistness of her
against the length of his shaft. Her hands clutched his arms, the nails digging
into his biceps. Her breasts rubbed his chest as his hands kneaded her soft
bottom and rocked her against his hardness.

When
kissing and breathing were no longer possible
together, she raised her head
and looked down at him expectantly. In her eyes was the same trust a wounded
animal might show when he knows you're going to take away his pain. It was a
look of relief. Her weight lightened slightly as she began to roll off him, but
his hands kept her hips in place.

"It
looks like you'll be ridin' upright again, Sweet Mary, 'less you have some
objection."

She
blushed slightly, but she was too lost to object, too needy to care who was on
top, what way was the right one.

"Bend
your knees, then," he directed, controlling her hips with his hands. He
pitched her slightly forward, and she held her weight on her hands, her breasts
dangling over his face. He caught the end of one with his teeth and gently
played over it with his tongue while he rocked beneath her, reminding her that
he was knocking at her door.

He
could feel the heat building within her, the tension moving her faster and
faster against him until he knew she was ready. He held her steady and raised
his hips, then lowered her until her eyes widened and she stretched around him
to make a perfect fit.

"Oh,
Sloan!" she said in wonder. "Oh, Sloan!" she repeated as his
hands guided her hips up and down the length of him. And then his hands were
merely along for the ride, her body rising and falling by its own accord,
beating some ancient rhythm that she punctuated with grunts and sighs that
echoed around them.

Her
hands clenched and opened, clenched and opened, and he sensed the change in her
as she slowed and savored the moments before her jaw went slack and she
collapsed against him.

Every
muscle in his body begged for release as he eased himself out of her and rolled
her softly off him.

"I'll
be right back," he whispered, rolling onto his belly and awkwardly getting
up, shielding himself from her view. He dove into the water headfirst, his
heart still hammering, and swam until his muscles relaxed and his manhood grew
slack. He'd lost his sense of timing, but could that be all?

She
was asleep in the sun when he returned to her. Twisted around her ankle was the
strange undergarment he had seen that first day from up on the ridge. He eased
it off her and examined it. Never, despite all his experience with women, even
city women, had he seen anything like it. He didn't recognize the fabric, which
had a slight stretch to it and a deep green color. It wasn't cotton or silk,
and it was edged with lace too perfect to be made by hand. Stitched to the
waistband, which stretched and snapped back into place, was a little white
piece of cotton with writing on it. SIZE 5, it said, 88% COTTON, 12% SPANDEX,
MACHINE WASH AND TUMBLE DRY. MADE IN EL SALVADOR.