Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(88)

There was something in his gaze as he looked at me—something hesitant, something almost self-conscious—that made me pause. His hands trembled slightly where they clutched me, and his chest rose and fell in rapid succession. He was nervous. No—terrified.

It took only a second for understanding to rush in: Reid really was a virtuous Chasseur. A holy Chasseur.

Reid had never had sex.

He was a virgin.

For all his earlier arrogance, he’d merely been posturing. He hadn’t ever touched a woman—not in the way that counted, at least. I tried not to gape at him, but I knew he could easily read my thoughts by the way his expression fell.

I searched his face. How could Célie have abandoned him in this? What else was first love good for but bumbling hands and breathless discovery?

At least she’d taught him to kiss properly. I supposed I should be grateful for that. My throat and shoulder still tingled from his tongue. But there was so much more than just kissing.

Slowly, purposefully, I shifted in his lap, taking his face in both my hands. “Let me show you.”

His eyes darkened as I straddled him. My skirt slid up at the movement—the wind tickling my bare legs—but I didn’t feel the cold. There was only Reid.

I watched his throat bob, heard his breath hitch. His eyes darted to mine in a question when I pulled his hands to the lacings on my dress. I nodded, and he carefully pulled.

Despite the chill, his fingers were competent. They moved steadily until the front of my dress fell open, revealing the thin chemise beneath. Neither of us breathed as he reached a hand up and skimmed the bare skin of my upper breast.

I leaned into his palm, and he inhaled sharply.

Faster than I could blink, he swept aside the shoulders of my chemise, sending the fabric to pool around my waist. His eyes roved my naked torso hungrily.

I couldn’t help but grin. Perhaps he wouldn’t need much teaching after all.

Not to be outdone, I tugged the hem of his shirt from his pants. He pulled it up over his head, mussing his coppery hair, before his lips came down hard against mine, and we were pressed together, skin to skin.

It was short work after that.

He lifted me easily, and I tossed my dress away.

His eyes burned—pupils dilating, the blue around them hardly visible—as they took in my stomach, my breasts, my thighs. His fingers tightened on my hips possessively, but not tight enough. I wanted—no, needed—him to press me tighter, hold me closer.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed.

“Shut up, Chass.” My own voice came out a gasp. Locking my arms behind his neck, I rolled my hips against him. His own hips bucked up to meet mine in response, and he groaned. I gripped his shoulders to still him. “Like this.” Leaning back, I motioned to where our bodies met. We watched in unison as I rocked against him—slowly, deliberately, rubbing up and down at an agonizing pace.

He tried to increase my speed—his hands desperate, insistent—but I resisted, pressing myself flush against his chest and biting the sensitive spot where his neck met his shoulder. He jerked, and another low groan escaped his lips.

“This is how you touch a woman.” I pressed into him harder for emphasis, grabbing his hand and bringing it between my legs. “This is how you touch me.”

“Lou,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Right there.” I directed his fingers, my breath turning ragged at his touch. My chest heaving as he continued the movement I’d shown him. He bent forward abruptly and took my breast in his mouth, and I gasped. His tongue was hot, demanding. A deep, delicious ache built too quickly in my belly. “God, Reid—”

At the sound of his name, he bit down lightly.

I shattered completely, lost in the pleasure and pain. His arms tightened around me as I came, his lips crashing down upon mine as if to devour my cries.

It wasn’t enough.

“Your pants.” I fumbled at his laces, crushing my lips against his between breaths. “Take them off. Now.”

Reid was only too happy to oblige, lifting me awkwardly to strip them down his legs. Tossing them aside, he watched me anxiously, face still pale, as I straddled him once more. I grinned in response, tracing a salacious finger down the length of him, savoring the feel of him pressed against me. He trembled at the contact, eyes shining with need.

“Another time,” I said, pushing him gently against the rooftop, “I’ll show you just how foul my mouth can be.”

“Lou,” he repeated, pleading.

In a single, fluid movement, I sank down, burying him inside me.

His eyes screwed shut, and his entire body jerked upward as he plunged himself deeper, right to the hilt. I would’ve cried out—it was too deep—but I didn’t. I couldn’t. There was pain, but—as he receded and thrust again—the pain intensified into something else, something sharp and deep and aching. Something needy. He filled me completely, and the way he moved . . . I threw my head back and lost myself in the sensation. In him.

The ache spiraled upward, and I couldn’t stop from kissing him, from tangling my fingers in his hair, from raking my nails down his arms. It hurt, this throbbing, yearning feeling in my chest. It consumed and obliterated and overwhelmed everything I’d ever known.

His arm snaked around my waist, and he spun, pinning me beneath him. I arched upward—desperate to be closer, desperate to relieve the building ache—and hooked my legs around his sweat-slicked back. His hand came down between us as he increased his pace, and my legs began to stiffen. He touched me exactly the way I’d shown him, stroking me determinedly, relentlessly. A low growl escaped his throat.