Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(45)

“You’re not in the wrong,” Jason had murmured. “And you do get to be angry about it. Tomorrow. But for tonight, sleep.”

Now she lay quietly while fretful wind gusts wrapped around the tower. It had been a long time since Justine had woken up with someone in her bed. Even through the layers of quilts that separated them, Jason radiated heat. A cozy shiver ran through her, and she inched back to fit more snugly against him.

Jason stirred, his breathing slow and even. His hand came to rest at the side of her rib cage in a reflexive gesture. Ticklish pleasure awakened all along her back and spine.

It occurred to Justine that this was the first time she had ever slept with a man without having had sex with him first. Jason could have taken advantage of her last night, while she was distraught. But he hadn’t. He’d been a gentleman. She wondered what it would take to make him lose that iron self-control. As she began to roll toward him, the underside of her breast nudged against his hand. The sensation went to the pit of her stomach.

Jason stretched and moved, sliding his arm more comfortably over her. She felt his breath against the back of her neck, lightly stirring the fine hairs. Was he awake? Should she say something? His hand drifted along her side, fingers cupping beneath her breast. Definitely awake. Excitement pulsed through her as she felt him begin to unbutton the long placket of the nightgown, every movement easy and deliberate.

His fingers slid beneath the thin white flannel. So gentle … such a contrast to the brutal strength of his grip on her yesterday. Her heart quickened, each heavy thump rolling forward into the next. He cupped her breast, lifting the soft weight, rubbing his thumb over the tip until it gathered into a tight peak. The subtle stimulation pulled up rich throbs from inside.

“Jason—”

His forefinger went to her mouth, resting briefly on her lips.

She felt an openmouthed kiss at the back of her neck, the tip of his tongue touching her skin … tasting her … as if she were some exotic delicacy. He reached into the welter of the white sheets and quilts, grasped a fold of her nightgown, and tugged it up to her waist. Gooseflesh rose on her legs as they were exposed to the cool air. His warm hand slid over her taut stomach, a fingertip tracing the rim of her navel.

Desperately Justine reached down to grasp his wrist.

“Patience,” he said against her hair.

“I can’t just l-lie here like a statue—”

“Maguro,” he said near her ear, his lips grazing the delicate edge.

“What?” she asked in bewilderment.

“The Japanese word for a woman who lies still in bed.” The pitch of his voice was low and morning-roughed. His hand returned to her stomach, rubbing a soothing circle. She felt the shape of his smile against her neck. “Also the word for tuna.”

“Tuna?” she echoed indignantly, trying to turn over.

Jason held her in place. Amusement rustled through his voice. “Sushi grade. An expensive delicacy in Japan. Something to savor.”

“They … they want a woman not to move?”

Jason pulled away the quilt. “Sexual passivity is considered feminine.” Drawing back the bedclothes, he lay behind Justine, close enough that she could feel the hard muscles of his body beneath the linen shirt and pants. “There’s always a passive partner and an active partner.”

Her stomach contracted with a sharp pang of anticipation as she felt the jutting pressure of his erection against her bottom. His thigh pressed between hers, holding them open.

“And the man is always the active partner?” she managed to ask.

“Of course.” He nuzzled at the side of her neck, while his hand slid into the wild mass of her hair.

“That’s sexist.” She gasped as his hand gripped the hair close to her scalp, exerting a light but riveting tension. “What are you—”

“Quiet.” The heat of his breath collected in the shell of her ear. “Don’t ask anything. Don’t move unless I tell you to.” Bringing his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “Be a good girl for me.”

No one had ever spoken to her that way. Justine would never have expected herself to tolerate it. But she was caught firmly, with his fingers in her hair and his leg holding hers open. She couldn’t seem to breathe fast enough, deep enough. Her muscles went lax, as if she’d been drugged. All she could do was wait, helpless with anticipation and need.

His hand slid from her hair. He pulled her top leg back, widening the flection of her thighs, and his fingers slid over the tender furrow. Gently he separated the fullness, teasing the swollen center. The sensation was so sweetly excruciating that she moaned in surprise. He found an intimate seep of moisture and stroked through it.

Her thigh muscles tightened and loosened in a rhythm she couldn’t control. A sound of frustration trembled in her throat as his hand pulled away and his thigh withdrew.

Desperately she twisted to reach for him. “Jason—”

His fingers touched her lips, a wordless imperative. A light saline perfume rose to her nostrils, the intimate scent of her own body. She fell silent, trembling with confusion and heat, her inner muscles clasping on emptiness.

“On your back,” he said quietly.

She obeyed, gasping as he pulled at the open neckline of her gown until her br**sts were uncovered and the tight fabric trapped her arms.

His fully clothed body lowered between her na**d thighs. She felt a soft touch on her breast … his mouth … surrounded by the electrifying roughness of morning bristle. He covered the tip and tugged lightly, and stroked with his tongue. She gritted her teeth to hold back the plangent sounds rising in her throat.