The Story of Son(8)
Author: J.R. Ward

"What if I wanted that?"

"I will not have sex with you."

She sat up on her elbow. "Light a candle. I need to see your face while we talk like this."

Candles flared on both sides of the bed.

He was on his back, his lids closed, his red and black hair a great sea of waves over the white pillows.

"Why won't you look at me?" she asked. "Damn it, Michael. Look at me."

"I look at you all the time. When the lights are off, I watch you. I stare at you."

"So meet me in the eye now."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"It hurts."

Claire ran her hand up his arm. The muscles underneath strained, his biceps thick and well defined, his triceps cut.

"It shouldn't hurt to look at a person," she said.

"It is too close for me."

She stayed silent for a moment. "Michael, I'm going to kiss you. Now." When she heard the demand in her voice she throttled back a little. She didn't want to force him. "That is, if it's okay with you? You can absolutely say no."

She could feel his body tremble, the subtle quakes transmitted through the mattress. "I want you to. Until I think I will suffocate from the wanting. But then you know that, don't you. You know that's why I came to you."

"Yes, I do."

He laughed a little. "That is why I am as needful of you as I am. You see everything about me and you are unafraid. And you are the only one who has ever thought of getting me out."

She moved over to him and those burning blue eyes shifted to hers.

"Raise your head," she told him. When he did, she reached out and freed his hair from the leather tie. Splaying it out fully, she marveled at the glory and the weight and the incredible colors. Then she made eye contact and started to lower her mouth to his.

His lids pulled back, his stare bursting.

She stopped.

"Why are you frightened?" she asked, smoothing his widow's peak.

He shook his head impatiently. "Just kiss me."

"Tell me why."

"What if you don't like me?"

"I will. I do." To reassure him, she dipped her head down and pressed her lips to his softly: then she stroked over his mouth. God, he was velvet. And warmth. And anxious heat.

Especially as he groaned. The sound was all male and all about sex and her body responded by going loose between her legs.

To get his mouth parted, she licked at him, becoming lost in the sensation of soft on soft, breath on breath. When he opened up, she pressed inside, meeting the hard polish of his front teeth, then sinking in. She stroked his tongue and felt his chest rise sharply.

Worried that she'd gone too far, too fast, she pulled back. "Do you want to stop—"

The growl came out of nowhere. And he moved so fast, she couldn't track him.

The room spun as he flipped her over onto her back and then straddled her, a huge male animal who didn't frighten her in the slightest. He leaned down, the weight of his chest compressing hers, his legs bracketing her hips. He was breathing hard as he put their faces together, his eyes positively glowing.

"I need more," he demanded. "Do that more. Harder. Now."

Claire recovered quickly and lifted her head off the pillow, fusing their mouths. He pushed back, forcing her down, deepening the contact. And he learned fast. In a slick penetration, his tongue shot into her mouth and she surged under him.

With his legs straddling her, she couldn't feel his erection. And she wanted that, needed that.

She yanked her mouth away from his. "Put yourself between my legs. Lie between my thighs."

He lifted up and looked down at their bodies; then he used his knee to part her and fused them together.

"Oh, God," Claire moaned as he gasped. His arousal was hot and hard through the thin layers of silk they wore. And he was massive.

"Tell me what to do," he said. "Tell me . . ."

She raised her knees up and tilted her pelvis, cradling him into her sex. "Rub yourself against me. Your hips. Move them."

He did until they were both panting and groaning and his head was buried in her neck. The silk was a conductor, an enhancement, hardly any barrier at all. And maybe because of their circumstances, because this was like a fantasy, Claire let herself go, giving herself permission for once just to feel. She didn't think of anything but the contours of his body against her own and the way his surging motion was absorbed by her core and the incredible smell of him and the heat of the sex.

When he pulled back, she was ready to have him inside. Especially as he said, "I want to see you."

"Then take off my robe."

As he reared up, he took her breath away. His hair spilled all around him in glorious waves that caught and magnified the candlelight. His face was too beautiful to be real. And at his hips, a hungry, proud length was straining behind red silk.

"You are a dream," she said.

His hands shook as they gripped the tie that was around her waist and slowly slid the two pieces apart. He took the lapels and pulled them back, revealing her br**sts.

As he looked at her, she became aware that he was making a strange sound, like the deep purr of a cat.

"You are. . . resplendent," he said, his eyes wide with wonder and awe. "May I touch you?"

When she nodded, one of his long-fingered hands came out. He brushed the underside of one breast and then traveled up to the pink, tight crown. The instant he made contact with her nipple, she arched and closed her eyes. His touch was like a flame, weighing nothing and burning her.

"Kiss me," she said, reaching for his shoulders so she could pull him down to her breast. When he went for her mouth instead, she stopped him. "On my br**sts this time. Kiss me on them. All over them. Take them into your mouth and roll the ni**les with your tongue."

Michael eased himself down her body until he was eye level with one of her ni**les. His expression was part animalistic lust, like he wanted to devour her, and part winsome, aching gratitude.

He nuzzled at her and then covered her with his lips. As she shuddered and linked her legs around the middle of his back, he sucked gently, learning her body, taking his time. Impatient, needing more, she threaded her hands through his hair and urged him on so he'd work her with power.

He didn't need much encouragement.

Sexually speaking, his natural inclination was to dominate. She might have started out as the teacher, but he was taking things from there, driving the sex, taking them both higher. He watched her as he suckled on her, his eyes greedy and hot, all male satisfaction as she writhed under him. And then he was kissing her again and his hands were grabbing on to her h*ps so he could rub his arousal into her.

They had reached the point of no return as far as she was concerned and she was about to say so when he pulled back.

His mouth was open, his fangs showing. That was when she came.

She convulsed under his body, her thighs clamping around his hips, her core pressing upward, seeking more even as it released.

She was vaguely aware as his expression changed to one of shock. Which made sense because she was shouting something incoherent and digging her nails into him.

When she'd settled down, her eyes focused.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"God . . . yes." Her voice was haggard.

"Are you sure? What happened?"

"You made me orgasm." He frowned as if he were trying to figure out whether that was a good thing. "It felt fabulous."

"Can you do that again?"

God, she couldn't wait. "With you? Absolutely."

His smile was guileless, nothing but a generous, kind lift to that amazing mouth of his. "I want you to do that again. You're beautiful when that happens."

"Then touch me between my legs," she whispered against his lips. "And I will."

Michael rolled off her while pressing kisses to her br**sts as if he hated leaving them. Then he took his hand and moved it down over her stomach, pushing the robe completely aside.

She had a passing moment of worry. She had no idea how he'd react to her na**d.

He tilted his head to one side as the silk fell off her body. "You have hair there."

"Don't you?"

He shook his head. "I like yours," he murmured, running his fingers back and forth ever so lightly. "It's so soft."

"There's something even softer."

"There is?"

She spread her legs and guided him where she wanted him to go. At the first surge of contact, she bit her lip and torqued—

Michael moaned. "You're . . . slick."

"I'm ready for you."

He took his hand up and stared at his fingers, then rubbed them together. "It's like silk." Before she could say another thing, he slipped them into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he sucked at what had touched her.

Which brought her right to the edge again. "Michael. . ."

And that was when breakfast arrived.

5

As the sound of a metal gate slamming shut ricocheted around the stone walls, the smell of bacon wafted over. Michael looked torn.