Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(74)

She roughly pushed his head back into position, and he laughed a little and took up a steady rhythm as she fisted the edge of the window seat cushion in both hands. It gave him joy to watch her as he worked: eyes squeezed shut, open mouth, contorted face, a deep flush of red spreading over her upper chest and neck as she strained. And when she switched her straining grip from the seat cushion to his bracing arm, he watched her face turn to the side as a silent scream floated from her open mouth.

“Good girl,” he said when the tremors slowed and her legs tried to close around his head. He gave her one last lick, a lingering kiss, and then released her.

He wanted to feel her skin. As her breath steadied, his palms drifted over the smooth silk of her stockings, up her calves and thighs. He continued exploring, molding her curving hips and the flat expanse of her stomach. He skimmed over the tips of her breasts and savored the way his touch made her jump. The way, when he caressed her breasts, she came back to life. The way her legs parted once more, inviting him closer. And it was then that he realized, with no small amount of excitement, that the window seat was the perfect height. He could take her like this, kneeling between her thighs, framed by the lights of the city winking over a dark sea of rooftops.

“Are you ready for me, now, huli jing?” he whispered as her damp curls tickled the head of his cock.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “I want you.”

He didn’t bother to take off his pants—they didn’t have the luxury of time—so he only pushed them down below his knees so he could find better leverage on the woven silk rug that covered the floor.

“You know,” he said, momentarily sucking her nipple into his mouth because he couldn’t resist, “I think I’ve heard if two people come together beneath mistletoe, you’ll both have good luck for ten years.”

She choked out a laugh, and then her eyes became serious and glossy. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

“No,” he admitted, pushing back a wave of emotion so strong, it made goose bumps spread over his arms. “But tell me afterward if you haven’t changed your mind.”

He drove himself into her as far as he could, allowed a moment for the overwhelming pleasure of it to pass (hot, wet, tight, mine-mine-mine), and then gripped her hips and picked up speed.

If the newness of her body was a pleasure during their night at the lighthouse, then the familiarity of it was its own grand reward now. He knew how to angle himself to hit the spot inside her that she liked, right at twelve o’clock. He knew how hard to push her, and when it was too rough. He knew if he kissed her now, with the taste of her sex still on his lips, the taboo of it would excite her and she’d squeeze around him a little tighter.

But most of all, he knew when that pleasurable squeezing started and stopped, started and stopped, started and didn’t stop, that she was racing toward climax.

He raced for it with her.

They dug their nails into each other. He felt the silken soles of her feet leave the ledge of his buttocks to scrabble for foothold on the edge of the window seat. Heard the rhythmic squeak of wood keep time with his quickening thrusts and the lush sound of their flesh smacking together, the finest symphony ever composed. And when she opened her mouth against his neck to stifle her scream, the gathering warmth in his balls shot forward and he came—quietly, muscles quaking, heart stopping, soul bursting apart into a million points of light.

When he pulled out, still hard, he was so spent, he wobbled on his knees. “Come here,” he murmured, summoning the strength to hoist her onto his hips while he repositioned them. He sat on the window seat with her across his legs, and wrapped her in his arms.

“Look at that,” he said, gazing through the window. The rooftops of Pacific Heights rolled down the hill toward the Golden Gate. “If you look close enough, I’ll bet you can see the lighthouse past the hills.”

“No, you can’t,” she said with a husky laugh and pressed her hand against the windowpane. “But it’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it’s ours.”

Their city. For it seemed at that moment to have been painted across the landscape just for the two of them.

He sighed, wholly content. Another minute, perhaps, and they’d have to leave. If they stayed gone too long, someone would notice. He thought of Aida’s words in his ear: Thanks for keeping my secret. Road goes both ways. If she knew, how long would it be before she confessed her suspicions to Winter?

“Bo?” Astrid asked. “What happened to the young scholar and the fox spirit?”

He rested his chin on top of her head, stroked over her bare shoulder, and then gently grazed his nails down her arm, memorizing her anew.

Impossibly soft.

Scent of roses.

Voice that made his heart warm.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m afraid I just don’t know.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day was, bar none, the happiest in Astrid’s life. Firstly, it didn’t rain a single day; the historic storm was finally, truly over. Secondly, they didn’t catch even a glimpse of Max and his knife, nor did Astrid experience any disturbing visions—though a visit to Velma told her that the tea she’d prescribed wasn’t helping; the unwanted shadow on Astrid’s aura was still very present. But despite this disappointing news and the fact that Bo and Astrid’s impending date at the carousel of Babel’s Tower was quickly approaching, they were able to put it out of their minds.