The Passion Play (11 page)

Yes, this was how it should be: that reckless wildness, freedom to touch and the boldness to do so. To do what she wanted when she wanted and not be ruled by caution. Yes! This was it. She grinned in delight, rubb
ed him in a firm, knowing stroke until he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. When he focused on her a long moment later, pressed his big hand over her smaller one and held it in place with the broad ridge of his response in her palm, he was breathing hard. His eyes were half-lidded and there was a dazed look on his face.

"God," he said fervently.
"What you do to me, woman!" He brought his mouth down close to her ear, she tilted her head to give him better access and felt the brush of his lips against the tender flesh there as he said: "I want to touch you. I want to touch you all over." His free hand cupped her flank, his thumb rubbed the side of her breast. "I want to send you to heaven. Will you let me put my mouth on you?"

He reared back to look at her face, and for a moment she thought he meant he wanted to kiss her mouth. But he was not looking at her mouth, he was looking her in the eye, waiting for an answer to what she suddenly realized was a much more intimate question.

Her own mouth dropped open and she felt the heat of a massive blush suffuse her to be spoken to like this on the middle of a dance floor, to be asked outright if she would let him serve her so intimately.
Let
him, as if it was an honor she might bestow. 

'No' would be the wrong answer, but 'yes' was a huge declaration of intent, the naming of her desire and the will to wield it. She paused, and her hand crept to her face, the tip of her index finger pressing into the flesh of her lower lip.

His gaze dropped to her mouth now, and the look he gave that finger was hot enough to scorch it, his chest visibly rising and falling. She felt a twitch under her other hand as he became even more engorged. Still he waited for her answer, not releasing her from the tension of the moment.

She nodded and said: "Yes," and he cupped the back of her head with one hand and with the other he brought that finger of hers to his mouth and sucked on it fiercely, briefly. Then he put his mouth over hers in possession hot as a brand, his tongue plunging between her lips, finding hers to stroke it, lure it to him to suck. She could barely think
, her perceptions of the room, the music, the crowd all whirled away, lost under the lust that rose in her at his passionate onslaught. He had been careful with her before, gentle and controlled, and now he was not, as if some line had been crossed in his mind.

It made her burn to feel how much he wanted her, so he shook with the force of it, so
she
shook within the hard circle of his arms, moved by him. So hungry.  He was curved around her and she yearned to be closer still.

"Take me home," she said, breaking away, said it a second time, louder, in his ear.
Now
, while her desire was stronger than her caution, her inhibitions.
Now
, while her whole body thrilled to the power and passion of him.

He did not hesitate. He lifted her up so her sternum was pressed onto one shoulder, his forearm a bar under her bottom, and with his other shoulder he cleared a path through the mass of heaving bodies, barely polite. She laughed and blushed, putting one hand up against her hot cheek as he forged his way past strangers who glanced upwards at her in surprise. This was crazy. He was crazy.

He was crazy for her.

She had been neglected for a decade, and it had taught her how to measure her own worth. This was so different it left her struggling to keep up.

When they were at clear of the scrum at the dance floor he put her down and held her hand, towing her as she trotted on her toes, moving too fast in her high-heeled boots.

"Slow down, what's the hurry?" she asked, a little breathless.

He turned back to flash her a grin. "I don't want you to change your mind."

"Why would I do that?"

"For no earthly reason I can think of, but you've caught me by surprise before." The teasing was a thin veneer of humor over the excitement she saw sparkling in his eyes, the steely resolve. This was important to him, she could sense it, and she felt guilty to be using him this way, wondered if she should warn him, decided not to. He was an adult, he knew her situation, and she did not want to break the mood with a conversation about how they were wrong for each other in every way except for this, where it seemed they were just right.

A perfect fit.

It was so hard, now their only point of contact was their hands, not to fall right back into over-thinking the moment, wondering if this was the right choice. Would she regret it? Would he? What if . . .

No wonder people drank to excess. It was so difficult to surrender control and go with the moment when the brain was unclouded and fully functional. Why had she said 'yes' to
dancing? Why had she not just invited him over and saved this awkward moment of transition? But no, she couldn't imagine doing that either, so boldly declaring her intent to use his body.

They reached his car and he opened the door and
shoveled her in, ran around the back of the car to his own seat. He jumped inside and gunned the engine in almost the same motion. It made her smile. If she was anxious, maybe so was he, though she could not see it in his expression. She turned a little sideways in her seat so she could watch him out of the corner of her eyes.

He was holding the steering wheel hard in both hands, his corded forearms flexing with the strength of his grip-release-grip. His full lips were thinned, his jaw tight. No, he did not look anxious.
Fierce. Determined. Then he glanced at her and his eyes warmed. He reached out and caught the hand nearest his, lifted it to his mouth. She thought he was going to kiss it but he uncurled her index finger and slid it into his mouth, stroked it slowly with his tongue.

Instantly her worries sank into a pink,
glowy mush. He turned his head just enough to watch the road, drove with one hand, his cheeks hollowing as he continued the gentle suction. It was so suggestive she squirmed in her seat, delighted and embarrassed. When he still did not look at her she was able to relax into it, to just enjoy the caress, breathing slowed and thought suspended.

Hmmm. Oh yes, this was going to be good.

He pulled in at the curb by her house and was out of the car and around it before she had gathered herself together enough to open the door. He opened it for her, undid her seatbelt, grasped her around the ribs like her chest was a football and lifted her right out of the car and back up onto his shoulder.

"What are
you-"

"Just making sure," he said firmly, closing the door with a slam. "Give me your keys."

"You're a Neanderthal," she said, but she was laughing. With difficulty she pulled her tiny clutch from the back pocket of her jeans, jostled by the hold and squeezed so it was difficult to get her fingers around it. He reached her front door and waited, turned his head to shift her upper arm forward and nuzzle into the side of her breast.

"I can't do this if you . . . there," she said, pass
ed the single key to him and then canned the street and hoped she was not watched by one of the neighbors. That scandalous Felicity King, separated from her husband only a month and already hauling home young men. Or being hauled. It was one thing to decide gossip did not matter to her, another thing entirely to act that way.

She did not see anyone, or any twitching curtains up and down the night time streets. No one was walking their dog before bed. Everything was quiet. A nice family
neighborhood all settled in for the evening, oblivious to its seductress and her prey, disappearing into her lair.

Once inside he did not bother to turn on any lights.
Bright moonlight came into the atrium from the skylight, and splashed across the pale flagstones.

"This way?" he asked, already walking towards the bathroom where he had seen her brush her teeth.

"Yes," she said, "second door on the left," and wondered if she should have sent him to the spare bedroom rather than her own room, her marriage bed. But it was her house now, her home, her bed, and she was supposed to be moving on, leaving Dan behind. She could choose, she could set her own rules and never mind what anyone else thought.

Her
bed, and she would take the lover she had chosen in it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

She was breathing too fast now, hyperventilating, excited and nervous and intensely aware of the man who carried her so easily, put her down in almost the center of her bed. He grasped one of her boots and then the other, slid them off and dropped them, then reached for the button on her jeans.

"Wait," she said, panicking, and he smiled at her, toed his own shoes off then lay down full length next to her, propped up on one elbow, his body touching her from her shoulders down to her sock-clad feet. He stroked her hair back from her face then bent his head to kiss her slowly, sipping at her lips with a delicacy that relaxed her, its message of 'yes, I'll wait,' traveling straight to her brain without a need for the interpretation of words. That hand kept on stroking her hair, soothing her. She turned towards him and grasped the front of his shirt, holding him like he was an anchor, her fist clenched hard as she arched
into him.

He read her intent and his hand slid away from her hair and down behind her back to gather her and press her to his chest.

Yes, like that. That was what she wanted. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, his solidness, the ridges of muscle down his abdomen against her hand, flattened now between them. She moved her body in a ripple, a wave, so as to slide a little, feel him better, every nerve ending singing. But her clothes constricted her, his were an annoyance and now it was she who reached for the buttons on his shirt, awkwardly trying to undo them in the restricted space.

His hands immediately
followed, his mouth still on hers as he tugged the top two free of their buttonholes. Then he curled away from her and pulled his shirt off over his head, came back with his chest bare and beautifully made so she sucked in a breath in wonder that it was hers here tonight. His skin was lightly covered in hair, crisp and springy when she stroked him, his mouth finding hers again, his thigh slipping between hers, denim on denim, to grind subtly there where she wanted him. It jolted her, an unexpected spear of pleasure stabbing through the core of her, making her flex against him.

His hand went under her shirt, lifted the silky stretch fabric to find and cup her breast, shaping it to his palm. He circled her sensitive nipple until she gave a sobbing sigh and reached for the hem of the shirt. He helped her get it over her head and oh, the feel of his skin against hers was extraordinary. She closed her eyes
and sank into blackness laced with fireworks, finding it difficult to think straight, to plan or examine or do anything in fact other than be here in this moment.

Against her hip, pressing into the bed, the bulge of his erection in his pants was immense and she laid a hand on it with curiosity, difficult in that tight space. He went still, a fine tension thrumming through him and she opened her eyes again to find him looking at her, his own eyes heavy-lidded, his breath coming in soft huffs as if he was climbing mountains.

"Felicity," he whispered, and she heard the same wonder she felt in his tone. It was too emotional. She turned away from that intensity, hid her face in the bunched muscle of his shoulder to break the connection, but did not stop moving. He lifted his thigh from between hers to give her better access as she reached for the top button of his pants, released it with fingers that trembled. She lowered the zipper, felt each individual metallic tick as it slid down, straining to hold him in check. As she eased the fabric away he groaned quietly in her ear, stirring the fine hairs on the nape of her neck.

His focus on her, on her every small movement, his responsiveness, aroused her unbearably. She had never known this kind of intensity wedded to such control. He hid nothing from her, handed her such power, held his own back to make a space for her, welcom
ed her tentative touch and received it as a gift.

She wrapped her hand round the shaft she had freed, hot silk over steel, fe
lt the faint throb under his skin, the twitch and strain of it. She squeezed him, and now it was his turn to flex against her, thrust his hips forward less than an inch, glide within her hold. Her face was still hidden away and when he laid his mouth on her neck and flicked her there lightly with his tongue she knew he wanted her kiss.

She did not give it to him. Not yet. It was too much, too intimate, with the feel of him so alive in her hand, calling to the sheath within her. That urgency, the emptiness, the drive to completion was overwhelmingly intense. She wanted him inside her.

Instead she settled for his hand, caught it and placed it on the front of her jeans, willing him to read her mind. He did with a brief tug, released the buttons then slid his hand deep inside the back of her pants to cup one lace-covered globe of her bottom, kneaded her flesh hungrily before he shoved the denim down over her hips, jerking to get it out from under her. When her legs were bare she slid one thigh up the outside of his, the harsh fabric unbearably erotic against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She wanted to rub up close against him but could not bear to let go of his erection. She discovered the tip of it was wet, and used her thumb to spread the fluid, circling the crown of him.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a foil packet. She heard the sound and identified it as he ripped it open with his teeth, and she released him briefly to allow him to slide on the condom.
The moment he wore it she tilted her hips to a better angle so she could slide the tip of him over her most sensitive flesh, the feeling of hard, seeking masculinity so satisfying and teasing at once. Wonderful and yet not enough.

"Felicity, wait," he said softly.

"No," she said, moved forward, settled down onto him, feeling the glorious stretch as he breached that sacred space, untouched by a man for so long.

"Christ, Felicity, please. Give me a moment."

"No." She slid further onto him, slippery with lust, wanting only to sink into this sensation and not surface until she was done.

"Sweetheart, look at me."

She did not want that connection, only his body, so she bit him, hard on the upper slopes of his pectoral, made him jerk in surprise and shove the hot, hard length of him deep inside her.

They gasped together, she arching mindlessly at the penetration, forgetting to hide, forgetting everything.

He surrendered to her desire, rolled her onto her back, propped his weight on his elbows and started an inexorable rhythm of thrust and grind that drove her straight to the edge and – one minute, two minutes more – over into orgasm, clutching at his back and tilting her pelvis to extract every last piece of pleasure

She grumbled wordlessly when he withdrew, her eyes still closed in the hazy rose-tinted aftermath, boneless, her whole body bliss-struck. She barely registered the delicate brush of his lips on her nipple, his fingers between her legs, so light and airy, all a piece with the subsiding ripples of her own delight.

Gradually the pressure of his touch increased, sneaking up on her, surprising her with a new wash of pleasure, startlingly intense when she had thought herself satisfied and finished. Her eyes flew open to find he knelt over her, suckling gently on one nipple, his hand toying with her other breast. The fingertips of his other hand stroked a line from perineum to the barest brush against her uncomfortably sensitive clit. Enough to stimulate, just short of pain so she caught her breath at the delicate line he trod. 

Oh, how did he know to do that? Even she had not known . . . oh . . . oh, he made her want to
scream
to stop. Never to stop. Oh, she could not think. There was a brief relief as he slid further down her body and then he replaced fingertips with tongue, both hands stretching up to mould her breasts, pluck at her nipples, his arms on either side of her body in an embrace that was almost comforting while the rest of him drove her to frenzy.

Her body twisted, rose, bucked with the electric jolts of pleasure, and he just followed. How did he know when her clit was ready for his tongue? How did he know to suck on it like that? It was just . . . it was so . . .

Her second orgasm made her whimper and then cry out, shaking with the force of it, the world going dark under the overwhelming weight of sensation.

Dimly, so dimly, she perceived him return to lie beside her, lay tender kisses on her eyelids, her cheekbones,
her mouth. It was an effort of will to open her eyes, so drained was she. She found him there, waiting to smile down at her, such a wealth of pleasure and delight in him it fairly radiated from him like sunbeams.

She looked back at him, dazed, absent of will, and he kissed her deeply so her body once again rose for him, instinctively tugging him a little closer with the hand that lifted from the cover and came to rest in his hair.

That was all the invitation he needed to bring his body back over hers, to sink into her with a deep, gliding tug, the huge fullness of him unabated, demanding now, and though she had thought there was nothing left she was wrong because her legs wrapped around him, then her arms around his chest, an earthquake of an experience with his thrusts growing wilder, less controlled, until she – moved by his ardor, by the forceful rub of him, the massaging drive of his hard body into the yielding softness of hers – came a final time, her cry muffled against his chest.

He groaned her name a moment later, going still, and she felt a wash of affection for him she did not want to feel, and she turned her head to one side and closed her eyes, feeling somehow like she had betrayed him.

It was too much, too rich and raw and sweet. He showed her the heart of himself and she had no space in her to take it, and that made her feel small and inadequate, unprepared for the largeness of his spirit.

He rolled over, t
ook her with him, kept them joined, her head on his chest. His arms were tight about her, cherishing, one hand then the other moved to stroke her spine, cup her neck, her hip, her bottom. Learning her. Taking her in. Wrapping her up and enfolding her. Too much.

She wriggled free of his tight hold, eased to the side, let him tuck her under one arm so her head was pillowed on his shoulder. He kissed her temple, stroked her face and she laid one hand on his chest. He sighed in contentment and a few moments later he twitched and she was certain he was sliding into sleep. She waited as his breathing slowed and
deepened, the beat of his heart a steady thump under her ear.

Four minutes.
Five. When she got up he did not even move, a healthy man solidly asleep.

She stared at him, so big, so real,
so strange in her bed. For twelve years she had only known one man. It was odd to learn a new one, superficially alike but ultimately so different.

Had Dan ever treated her like that?
Perhaps at the very beginning . . .

No, she did not think so. Dan was a scores man. He ticked off points on a mental checklist, the requirements of a good lover, then relaxed and had his fun. He had never challenged her closed eyes, her inward focus.

Luke wanted to connect. She had almost felt his disquiet as she shut him out, shut herself in, sought safety. She knew this was not just sex to him as clearly as if he had said it out loud.

He saw
her
. He wanted
her
. The sex was only a part of it.

Right now, there was nothing for her to give. She was still recovering, still mo
ulded to fit one man, still striving to find her own shape as a separate woman and not ready to accept another person into her life.

If all he had wanted was – like her – a few nights, a couple of weeks of fun, he would be perfect: so sexy, so attractive to her, such a
skillful lover. Ideal.

But he did not want just that. If she kept seeing him she would just hurt him, with his big heart wide open for her. He was a sweet guy but not right for her, and she was sad to say goodbye and she absolutely dreaded the conversation but she had to have it and she felt awful, and sick, but doing it tonight was the only way. It would be pure selfishness to put it off, and only make it worse for them both.

She would let him sleep, for now. This would be her penance for using him as she had, recklessly, selfishly. She would keep vigil over him and when he woke she would tell him.

No. First she would go wash the scent of him and her own response to him from her skin, and get dressed, too. She did not want to be vulnerable. She must be strong. He deserved it. She deserved it.

So much for fun.

Why did everything have to be so hard?

And then she cried.