Wishing Well(68)

“Fucking?” he asked.

I took a breath. “Of being together,” I corrected him. It was a struggle not to laugh when his head tilted like a confused puppy.

“There’s only one way, unless,” his hand found my ass, “you want to try my cock in that hole.”

Yeah, no. I wasn’t ready for that. “Just trust me, okay. I’m your friend, so I’d like to do something different. You’ll like it, I promise.”

It took him a minute of staring at me to finally nod his head and roll off me. Pushing to my knees, I climbed off the bed, his hand striking out to grab my wrist and stop me from leaving. Turning, I crooked a corner of my mouth. “I’m not going anywhere. I just need to move out of the way so you can sit down.”

Cocking one brow, he pushed himself into a seated position on the edge of the bed. Placing my hands on his shoulders - noticing how big he was compared to me - I climbed up to straddle him. His hands immediately moved to cup my ass and I smiled realizing the need to do so was just a natural part of him.

Cupping his cheeks in my hands, I didn’t miss the way his brows tugged together. He was completely still, a snake ready to strike, a man afraid of what the small woman in his lap would do to him.

“I want to go slow this time.”

Maurice shook his head, his fingers gripping me tighter.

“Please?”

Another shake of his head.

Lowering my voice, I pressed my forehead to his. He winced, jerking his head away before I could ask, “Have you ever gone slow before?”

Frustration was a tick in his jaw. “No.”

Remaining patient, I asked, “Have you ever let a woman fuck you before?”

“No.”

“Would you like to try it with me?”

Uncertainty was obvious in his voice. “Okay.”

Realizing he didn’t like his face touched, I assumed kissing him was out of the question. Baby steps , I told myself as I gently pushed on his shoulders to make him lie back. “Can I take off your shirt?”

Several seconds passed, but he nodded his head. My fingertips dragged from his shoulders down to his waist, ripples of hard muscle like deep ridges as I touched his stomach.

Good God, what kind of body does this man have hidden beneath his shirt?

I lost my ability to breath when I lifted the hem, tugging it off him as he moved his arms and showed me. But as my stomach twisted in knots to see an almost perfect physique, anger clouded my eyes to notice the maze of scars that were small white lines across his torso. Knowing better than to focus on those scars or ask questions, I lifted my eyes to his face. “You’re a work of art, Maurice. I’ve never seen someone so beautiful.”

Heat blazed behind his eyes, a primal edge to his gaze that made the butterflies in my stomach beat their wings harder. Without unlocking our gaze, I unbuttoned his jeans and freed his erection from his pants. My fingers wrapped the girth, a growl emanating from his chest, letting me know his patience to let me take the lead was running out.

Leaning down, I placed a kiss in the center of his chest and released his cock to unbutton my own pants. Moving so that I could drag them off my legs and kick them from my feet, I stood on the floor at the edge of the bed, and stripped off my shirt. There was no doubt on my mind this man was hungry, not with the way he stared at my breasts.

Slowly, I climbed back on top of him, my body ready, my breath held as I straddled his lap, positioned him so that he could sink inside my body, and lowered myself down. His hands immediately went to my waist, his lips parting as I began to move over him.

Dragging his hands up my body, he palmed my breasts, taking possession of them as he watched me move. I was driving myself to a climax when his patience finally snapped. But instead of shoving me over so that he could climb on top, he simply grabbed my hips, his grip firm, as he set a faster pace.

I came apart almost instantly, my palms on his shoulders, my head falling back as I let him use my body to find his own release, and when his hips bucked up, his cock sinking deeper inside me, I closed my eyes and realized that I was becoming addicted to the savage beast of man who had trusted me enough to call me his friend.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


After the time we spent in Maurice’s ‘room with a bed’, as he called it, we made it back to the ‘sunshine room’, as I called it, and ate dinner. Not much conversation was had, but I hadn’t expected it, at least until I asked about the reason for one yellow room in his basement.

My curiosity won me an angled brow, a moment of silence as he carefully placed his fork on his plate, pulled the cloth napkin from his lap and placed it on the table. A million thoughts rushed behind his downcast eyes, lines of sorrow written across his face.

His voice had little strength when he asked, “What has Vincent told you?” His eyes lifted to mine. “About me? About life before he brought me here?”

Not a damn thing... I thought, bitterly. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he’d admitted Maurice had some issues, and that they’d lived in Paris before coming to the States.

“Not much. He said you lived in Paris before coming here. That you had a place in Paris and a farm outside the city with a well much like the one in the garden.”

Nodding, Maurice admitted, “I don’t remember that much about Paris. Or the farm. I was younger than Vincent when Maman died. But I do remember a room like this one. It was her favorite place. I could be calm for her in that room.”