Finding Isadora(102)

I kept expecting him to grab me and pillage my mouth the way he had last night, but the kiss, when it came, was a total surprise. His lips met mine gently, in a soft, barely there touch. “Isadora,” he murmured, his breath warm, scented pleasantly with merlot.

I moved forward, pressing my belly against his distended fly and tightening my hold on his waist, and tilted my head into his kiss. He nibbled around the edges of my lips, each caress sending a dart of pleasure, of arousal, singing through my veins. His tongue teased the crease of my lips. I’d have gladly opened for him, but this slow dance was seductive and I wanted to prolong it. I reached up to tangle my hands in his wonderful, silky hair. “Don’t ever cut your hair,” I murmured.

“Don’t ever grow yours.”

We kissed, standing beside my bed, for what seemed like hours, our tongues mating as our bodies, in subtle movements, tantalized each other through the layers of our clothes.

When I finally pulled back to see his face, he was as flushed as I felt.

He reached for the hem of my T-shirt, eased it up, then slipped the garment over my head. My bra was one of those soft sports-type ones without a hook, and he peeled it off as well.

“Perfect,” he breathed as, for the first time, he touched my breasts. “Everything about you is perfect.”

The hungry, possessive expression in his eyes, the reverence in his touch, told me he meant what he’d said.

He cupped, fondled, teased, then finally leaned forward and drew my aching nipple into his mouth.

I touched him through his suit pants, my whole body yearning for him.

But first things first. From the beginning, I’d longed to see his naked body. Now I undid his shirt buttons and folded the sides back, baring his lean, muscled torso. A scattering of dark, curly hair, nipples the color of milk chocolate, a thrusting ribcage that tapered into a narrow waist. I ran my fingers over him, exploring, feeling his nipples tighten at my touch. Then I shoved the shirt back, off his shoulders. He raised his arms so it could drop to the floor.

Strong shoulders, muscled arms, everything beautifully shaped. Power and grace combined.

We both reached to unfasten each other’s pants at the same time. “Me first,” I demanded.

He raised his hands to allow me access.

I undid the button, slid the zipper over his erection, then began to pull his pants down. I realized I was holding my breath. Unable to bear the suspense, I hooked the band of his underwear with my thumbs and pulled it down at the same time.

His cock sprang free, jutting boldly, proudly, demandingly.

My mouth, quite literally, watered.

“Going to carry on?” he asked on a husky, teasing note.

I sucked in a breath and continued to ease his pants down. Narrow hips, thick curls of pubic hair, strong thighs. More hair on his legs than his chest. Great legs. Finally, I peeled his socks off, knowing already that his feet were as well-shaped as the rest of him.

I rose slowly and stepped back so I could really see him.

“All right?” he asked, and now there was the slightest hint of nervousness.

He must know how attractive he was. Mustn’t he?

“Wonderful,” I breathed. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Spent some time imagining, did you?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Me too.” Now his voice was gruff. “Time to find out how close I came.”

In less than a minute he had me out of my cotton pants and panties. Then it was his turn to stand back and my turn to feel anxious. Very anxious. Until he raised his eyes and I saw the fire in them. “Fuck, Isadora. I was right. You should be a model, for a sculptor who understands how the lines of a woman’s body can sing with beauty.”

The man could go from Anglo-Saxon expletives to poetry in less time than it took me to draw breath.

He held out a hand and I took it, then he pulled me gently toward the bed. “Down,” he said firmly. For a moment I thought he was talking to me, but then Pogo leaped off the bed, shot Gabriel a reproachful look, and went over to lie on his rug.

“Lie down?” Gabriel said softly, suggestively, to me.

I pulled back the duvet, feeling self-conscious at the thought of his eyes on my naked backside. Then I scrambled onto the bed, and he was right behind me. Before I could worry about how to arrange my limbs gracefully, he was doing it for me, spreading me on my back, kneeling between my legs, bending down to kiss my breasts.

Sighing with pure pleasure, I stretched like a cat and offered myself to him. I wanted to explore his body too, but there’d be time for that. I would make sure of it. For now, his lips, his tongue, his fingers, filled my world.

When we’d kissed last night at Spanish Banks, there’d been a sense of urgency, but that was gone now. It felt as if we had forever to touch and taste, to enjoy.

Well, maybe not forever. My skin was super-sensitive, pricking to attention wherever he touched, each nerve ending shooting a spark of arousal that fueled the building fire. His fingers curled in my pubic hair, caressed the mound underneath, and his tongue slid between my thighs.

“Gabriel.”

That clever tongue strummed me, made me sing in a chorus of whimpers and moans. I reached down, tugging fiercely on his hair until he raised his head. “Together,” I whispered huskily. “I want the first time to be together.”

He rose and slid up the bed to lie beside me, and I reached down to circle his shaft, wrapping my hand around him like a glove, feeling him pulse and throb at my touch.