Page 38 of Edge of Ruin
I giggled nervously as I began, but I put all my bravura into it. Kicking off my sandals. Peeling off my top. I stretched and preened as I pulled pins out of my hair and tossed them to the floor. The tinkle as they fell was loud in the flickering silence.
He watched me uncoil the long, twisted tail of red hair, shaking it down into loose waves over my shoulder, my breasts. I began to circle him, and he followed me with his eyes. The movement felt ancient. Like a ceremony, a spiral dance, an invitation. A sacred rite that would braid their male and female energies into a rope of pure magic.
“The skirt,” he reminded me. “Lose the skirt.”
I loosened the drawstring and let the skirt drop. Now I was naked, but for Lucia’s Renaissance pendant. The one thing that I never took off.
I scooped my hair up over my head, arching my back, tossing my hair. Turning, in front of the raw hunger in his beautiful silver eyes. Not a single nervous thought for my itty-bitty boobs, or my not-so-little ass, or my in-your-face tattoos.
Flaunting myself, and absolutely sure that I would please him.
“Now my clothes,” he told me, kicking off his sandals.
Wow. Even his feet were sexy, and I’d never given a thought to feet before, as long as they smelled okay. His were beautiful: long and brown, with graceful toes, square nails, elegant bones.
I attacked his clothes. A goofy grin wasn’t the right heavy-eyed, sensual temptress expression that I had wanted to assume for the occassion, but I was having too much fun to pretend to act serious.
I peeled his t-shirt off inch by inch, taking the opportunity to explore his torso with my fingertips. Feeling the grain of his hair, those lean, cut muscles. Every detail fabulously lickable.
I flung the shirt away and attacked his belt, but as I started to shove his jeans down, he stilled my hand, dug into his pocket, and fished out a string of condoms. A long string. He flung them onto the futon.
Ah. Well and good that he was prepared, but the calculated gesture struck me as a provocation. He shoved his jeans and briefs down, stepped out of them, and kicked them away.
Oh, yes. He was perfect. His huge cock thrust out, thick and high, bobbing with its own swollen weight. “Touch me,” he directed.
My hands rejoiced as they closed around that velvety supple rod, his vital pulsing heat, his velvety skin, his steely hardness and heat. He more than filled my hand.
I loved his gasps as I stroked and twirled my hand, pulling him, milking him. It made me feel like a goddess, handling storm clouds, thunderbolts. Fearlessly playing with devastating power as if it were my own personal toy, made for my amusement.
“I know this thing of me leading started out as a precaution to keep me from freaking out on you,” I said. “But it’s changed. It’s turned into a kinky power game.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But if a woman as proud and strong as you plays along with my kinky power game without telling me to fuck off, it means she really wants me, right?”
I swirled my hands around his cockhead, making him gasp. “It turns you on,” I challenged. “Telling me what to do. Admit it.”
He grinned. “Busted. But in my own defense, everything about you turns me on.”
“Aw, cute. You think you’re so smart, huh?”
He gave me a rueful smile. “Not at the moment.”
“I know your tricks,” I said breathlessly. “You’re showing me how completely you’re in control of the situation, right?”
His eyes went thoughtful. “Not exactly,” he corrected. “I’m showing you how completely I’m in control of myself. I think you need to be reminded.” He gathered up a hank of my hair and kissed it, with that lovely, secret smile glowing in his eyes.
He was so sweet, it made tears well into my eyes, for no reason I could understand.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I said, my voice wondering. “You have a split personality, Jack. Either you say the exact wrong thing that makes me want to smack you, or you say the exact right thing.”
“Yeah?” he prompted. “Which makes you want to ...?”
“Um, grab you,” I said primly.
His grin flashed. “Go for it, then. Grab me. I love it.”
I took him at his word, caressing him with slow, sensual pulls. His hands clenched, flexed, trembled. “So I never say anything neutral, like please pass the peas?”
“What peas have we eaten? We haven’t gotten that far in our relationship.”
