Page 24 of Grave Games

“You really do think a lot of yourself.” There. Finally managed to get the whole sentence out. Go, me.

“No, baby. I really think a lot ofyou.” For a moment, I thought I saw him close his eyes in the gloom of my bedroom, and that one look of helpless rapture hit me in unexpected ways. He found pleasure in me. In my touch. He opened himself up to me honestly, showing me how much he loved my hands on him. How much he needed the pleasure of my touch.

God, that was beautiful.

Feminine pride at this new-found power I had over him ballooned inside me so quickly I gasped. Eagerly my hand found a rhythm, stroking his hard flesh and exploring all the bumps and ridges of his shaft with my fingers. But just as I was seriously getting into it, he broke contact and pushed me back on the mattress until I was almost in the middle of it.

“I’ll tell you something else—not only do I think a lot of you, I also think a lotaboutyou. Like all the time. My dreams are filled with you.I think I’ve become a little obsessed.” His voice was a deep rumble, his breath shallow and disturbed. He sounded like sex, and it was the most exciting sound I’d ever heard. “You know what I’m thinking about when I think of you?”

“What?”

“I think about all the ways I’m going to make you come.” He bent over me, pushing me flat on the bed. “Time now to make a few of my fantasies a reality. Take your pants off, my Shy.”

Again I followed his order with shocking docility, stunned anew that no flutter of panic had crippled me even as I kicked my shoes off along with my pants. While I did that, he unhooked my bra and tossed it into the darkness, his eyes devouring every bared inch of me.

This was happening. This was actually happening.

And I wasn’t afraid.

Why?

I trust him, came the whispered answer, a gentle realization that soothed that poor, damaged girl hiding deep inside my soul.I trust him with me. I trust him with everything.

I was safe with Romeo.

Midwinter was never my favorite time of year, in part because there wasn't even a hint of the pretty honey-gold tan I carefully cultivated in the warmer months. Now I was pasty pale to the point of glowing in the semi-darkness, but to my relief he didn't seem to mind. He stared at my near-complete nudity like I was a heaven-sent miracle, and he meant to worship me for the rest of his life.

No woman could have witnessed that and remained unmoved.

“You,” he purred in a voice that was as velvety as the darkness around us, “are going to be the best meal I’ve ever had.”

Oh my God.

“Best prepare yourself, Shy girl. I’m not stopping ‘til I’ve eaten you out to the point where you don’t even know your name.”

I shivered. I couldn’t help it. “At least you won’t be talking with your mouth full, so there’s that.”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t talk.” With his hard-on so stiff it was heading toward his flat abdomen and his open jeans just hanging on to his hips, he settled on the bed, half on the mattress, half on me. “Like now. Tell me where you want me to put my mouth.”

“Everywhere.” It was the first and only answer that came to mind. “Just… everywhere.”

“You understand that everywhere I touch, becomes mine?”

And, still he talked. “Please, just… I want your mouth on me. Everywhere.”

“I can do that.”

Thank goodness.

My fingers threaded through his hair as he bent his head over me. I'd had exactly one man in my life—the young biker from hell who’d turned my whole existence inside out—so I wasn't completely inexperienced. I thought I knew what to expect. That was why I was so utterly blown away by the almost worshipful sensation of his mouth on my skin.

Caressing.

Tasting.

Exploring.

He seemed devoted to the task of learning every inch of me via his mouth, and I was here for it.

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