Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(60)

TWENTY

AIDA STARED AT WINTER’S HARD COCK. SHE COULDN’T HELP IT. It was long and shockingly thick, jutting proudly from a forest of dark curls. And it curved upward at the end like the stalk of a shaded plant desperately seeking sunlight.

His knuckles brushed her belly as he casually took himself in hand. One stroke pulled the foreskin back to expose a fat, glistening tip. “What do you think?” he asked, half mischievous, half serious, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it.

What did she think?

She thought he was bigger and more exciting than anything she’d seen before. She thought maybe the crazy pornographic drawing on that wicked postcard of his wasn’t as exaggerated as she’d believed.

After another stroke, he aimed toward her hip and rubbed himself across the scars there. It could’ve been crude; it wasn’t. He was speaking to her in a primal language she was disarmed to realize she not only understood, but craved.

She wanted to speak that language, too.

When she reached between them, he guided her hand to replace his. He was shockingly hot and smooth, velvet over a core of steel. The fingers circling his girth did not meet her thumb.

She ran her palm down his length and felt him shudder. His hands cupped the back of her head as he kissed her hotly, his tongue filling her mouth above as he filled her hand below. She was inexplicably happy, feeling an urge to pleasure him, to make him feel as good as she’d felt last night. He made low, hungered noises as she stroked him with more confidence, then pulled back on a groan. “You have to stop,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I’ve wanted you too badly for too long.”

A thrill raced through her.

He urged her toward the bathroom door, grabbing the round tin off the vanity along the way, then herded her to the bed.

Rain pounded on the balcony a few feet away. Cool wind carried scents of the city into the room—concrete and rust and brick—as they crawled onto the bed together. He dropped the tin on the embroidered matelassé coverlet and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her mouth, her neck.

Pleasure rippled over her, flooding her body from the outside in as they rolled together. They were skin to skin: her breasts pressed against the whorls of hair covering his chest, his erection trapped against her belly, her legs tangling with his, intertwined. Just this indulgence alone was an extravagance, and she explored the planes and contours of his body, touching him freely without shame.

Such a joy.

She marveled at how solid he was. Not just his chest and arms, but his back. Muscles she’d never felt before on another man. Her hands found the twin dimples above his buttocks that she’d often fantasized about touching since spotting them at Velma’s. And when she pressed her fingers into those dimples and traced their shape, his mouth opened wide against her cheek—

And he bit her.

Not hard. Not gentle, either.

It was startling. Strange. And it sent desire racing over her skin in waves. When he licked the place he’d bitten, her hips pushed against him, a response she couldn’t have controlled if she tried. He pushed back, rubbing his length against the triangle of hair between her legs. “Are you wet for me?” he whispered against her cheek.

“Yes.”

He frisked her curls with questing fingers, cupping her as she spread her legs. When he touched her aching center, she cried out and moved against his hand. “All of this for me?” he murmured, kissing her ear as he began stroking her. “You’re amazing.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as she gave in and relished the intense sensations he stoked up as he rubbed a thumb down and around her clitoris, making her whimper. It was too much, too intense. “Please—”

“Please, what?” He slid a thick finger inside her. “This?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded far away as he stroked her, putting pressure against the same aching place he had the night before. A second finger stretched her. Then he pushed deeper, twisting those fingers inside her, as if he were testing. Making a way for himself, she thought, and contracted around him, testing back. He groaned.

Extracting his fingers, he rubbed his thumb along her swollen entrance and pushed himself up to kneel on one knee. She lay on her back and blinked up at him, squirming under his touch, her gaze moving over his chiseled, aroused body. He took her hand and guided it between her legs, pressing her own fingers on top of his, slick and warm. So foreign and intimate to feel him there. Until he moved his hands away. She started to retreat as well, but he stopped her. “No, keep them right there.”

“Winter—”

He reached for the metal tin. “I want to watch you keeping yourself ready for me.”

She hesitated, but savage instincts took over.

“Yes, just like that. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He watched her dazedly for a moment, eyes hooded, then pried the lid off the tin and retrieved a small piece of rolled rubber cinched in the middle by a sleeve of paper. She’d never seen one before, and watched in fascination as Winter removed the paper band and fit the rubber sheath over his tip. “Don’t stop,” he instructed, eyes between her legs. Only when she continued did he unroll the sheath over the length of his cock, practically strangling it.

“Looks uncomfortable,” she said, more compliment than criticism.

“It’s a tight fit. But you’ll be even tighter, and I can’t wait. Come here.” He slung an arm under one of her thighs and tugged her closer, parting her legs wider, until he was kneeling between them. Prodding her fingers away, he took himself in hand and rubbed the head back and forth through her slickness. It felt extraordinary. Better than his fingers. And when he settled himself against her entrance, her heart hammered furiously.