Nineteen
Then
This kiss, their third, this one, was the best. So far, she thought with a giddy thrill, because he just kept kissing her, and there were bound to be more.
She felt the warm, rough pads of his fingers against her cheek as he cupped her face. His arm dropped to her waist and pulled her closer, up into his lap. Which turned out to be a very good place to be: his strong thighs beneath her, his chest supporting her, his arms a shelter as his mouth slanted against hers. It was perfect. It was almost too much. Sensory overload.
His hand pushed back through her hair, and when he broke the kiss, she whimpered – a sound that turned into a startled little gasp as he skimmed his lips along her jaw, to the sensitive place just beneath her ear, to the side of her throat he’d just revealed. “Oh,” she said, chills coursing through her. His mouth was hot against her pulse, lips opening, tongue touching her. She closed her eyes and leaned into it.
His hand moved to the other side of her neck, holding up her heavy head. The other slid down to her ass, broad sweeps across the swells, squeezing.
Her hips shifted, even as the rest of her went boneless, a restless seeking of friction. She needed him, needed him. Too-warm and damp between her legs, her jeans too tight. Too many clothes, and not enough skin.
This was what it felt like to want someone. Not the aimless, innocent curiosity of seeing him on the street. Not thinking he was beautiful, and dark, and rough, and wondering if he’d bite like a wild dog if she reached out to him. Virgin or not, her body was sending her very explicit demands about where she wanted his hands, his mouth…his cock. God, she wanted him. Wanted him inside her.
He kissed the collar of her throat, tongued her collarbones. Lifted his head and kissed her mouth again, licked inside her, wilder, more demanding, hand tightening on her ass.
She needed to touch him, now. Not just rest her hands on his chest, but get to his skin and dig her nails in.
“Can I?” she asked, panting against his lips, as she fingered the hem of his shirt.
He sucked in a breath. “Damn, baby. Yeah, yeah, touch me all you want.”
She leaned back far enough to push his shirt up to his neck; the air was cool on her damp lips, tingling, and she missed kissing him – but oh, the view. Golden tan and more defined than any man she’d ever seen in person; heavy pecs and a discreet six-pack. Something in her own stomach clenched at the sight, another desperate surge of desire.
He inhaled sharply when she put her hands on his chest, slid them down slowly, flicking at his nipples with her nails. A quiet breath of, “Jesus.”
She traced the stark grooves between his abs, watching them tense and leap beneath the pads of her fingers. When she started down the narrow trail of dark hair that led downward from his navel, he caught her hand in his.
She froze. Oh no, did he not–
When she glanced up, he was staring at her with heavy-lidded black eyes. Pupils blown. He looked like he’d been drugged.
“Ghost,” she started. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
“Do you want this?” His voice was rough and unsteady. He shifted her hand down, over the obvious bulge behind his fly; she swallowed when she felt the size of him, shocked, and thrilled, and aching. “Is this what you really want? You want – ‘cause I–” He was panting like he’d run a race, pulse visible along the side of his throat.
She didn’t even have to think. “Yes.” She pressed down a little, rubbing him with the heel of her hand. He hissed.
“Mags.” He tried to sound stern, but he was too wrecked for it to be effective.
Maggie grinned.
“Shit, I’m serious. You can’t take it back, after you–”
She leaned in close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. He’d had just a taste – not enough to dull his judgement, still in control of himself as he tried to be as chivalrous as a man could be when a girl had her hand on his cock. “Ghost,” she said, surprised by the throaty, but strong quality of her voice. “I want you.”
She tried to convey how much through her gaze, through the hand that slid back up his stomach, because she did. She had wanted things in her life up to this point, sure, but she’d never wanted anything like she wanted this man. She wanted his slick sliding against hers; wanted to taste him, salt and sweat and man; wanted to take him inside her body; wanted to leave marks on him, let other women know he was taken, that he belonged to her.
She was shocked and dazzled by her own thoughts, drunk on them. And she was sure, so very, very sure.
She kissed his lips, trying to mimic the wicked things he’d done to her. “Please,” she whispered. “Ghost–”
A surprised squeal left her when he moved suddenly, surging to his feet and scooping her up into his arms.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “Jesus Christ.” She’d never heard his voice sound like that, like he was drowning.
Maggie looped her arms around his neck as he walked her down the hall to the bedroom. Fast, but unsteady steps, like it was hard to walk with that much blood rushing south. She bit back a laugh and pressed her face into his throat.
He must have felt her smile, though, because he said, “You laughing at me?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, you try walking with a hard-on.”
She couldn’t hold back a small snort, and then the real laughter came, muffled against his skin, making her shake. It wasn’t that funny, but she was giddy. High off the taste of his skin and the knowledge that things were about to go further. All the way.
“Fucking brat,” he accused, but there was a smile in his voice.
He reached the end of the bed and dropped her on it; she bounced, startling another burst of laughter from her lungs. She clapped a hand over her mouth and tipped her head back to look up at him.
God. Wow. He looked equal parts predator and little boy. His eyes fathomless, his smile wide and joyful. All of his usual tension and doubt had vanished, replaced with a heady mix of delight and intent. He looked happy. Playful and excited.
She loved him like this. Didn’t want to see him any other way.
“Come here.” She reached her arms up for him, inviting him down.
He peeled his shirt off first, muscles bunching and flexing in the dim lamplight, and then joined her, leaning down to brace his hands on the bed, on either side of her hips. Kissed her, deep and thorough.
“Lie down, baby,” he murmured against the corner of her mouth.
She did, and he crawled up her body like a panther, settling over her so she could feel the heat and hardness of him, supporting his weight with one hand, while the other slid up beneath her shirt and spanned her belly.
He kissed her until she was dizzy. Breathless. Explored her breasts with deft fingers, sliding beneath her bra cups to tease her nipples to hard pebbles. Maggie smoothed her hands down his back, across his ribs, movements growing erratic and clumsy as he nipped his way down her throat.
“I need you naked,” he breathed in her ear.
She needed that too, definitely.
He rolled off of her so they could struggle out of their clothes.
Maggie dropped her panties off the side of the bed and hesitated a moment, heart hammering. For the first time since he’d kissed her on the couch, she felt a twinge of self-consciousness. She wasn’t ashamed, no. But she’d never been naked in front of a man before. She felt terribly exposed, suddenly, cut down to her essential elements. Because sex wasn’t just physical – at least she’d never thought of it that way – and she wanted Ghost in every way, not just with her body. She wanted to think he felt the same way, though maybe that was hoping for too much.
“Mags,” he said, voice all smoke and embers. “Sweetheart.”
She turned to him.
And she had no idea why she’d worried.
He was naked, but it was his face that drew her undivided attention. His dark eyes tracked over every inch of her, but it was nothing like the snarling leer he’d used outside the liquor store that first day. Nothing like the way anyone had ever looked at her. Jaw slack, mouth soft, he studied her with absolute reverence.
It overwhelmed her. She didn’t feel like she was worth that kind of look.
“What?” she asked.
“You are beautiful.” Simple words, but said with such feeling. She hadn’t expected poetry from a blue-collar outlaw man, and she didn’t need it. He wanted her, thought she was beautiful – there was nothing more perfect than that.
“C’mere.”
She slid close and he pulled her in even closer, smoothing his hands up and down her bare sides, raising goosebumps, stroking her like she was a spooked horse he was trying to put at ease. He ducked his head and nosed aside her hair, pressed gentle, sucking kisses down her neck.
“What do you want, baby?” He cupped her breast, shaped its fullness in his palm. “Where do you want me, huh?”
She surged into the touch. She wanted him there, teasing at her aching nipple…but it wasn’t enough; it only wound her tighter. She felt feverish.
She wet her lips. “I want…” It was hard to breathe. She’d never felt like this, sparkly and sharp inside, the desire almost painful.
“Here?” He moved to her other breast and she glanced down, watched his large, dark hand move against her pale skin. The mesmerizing stroke of his thumb around her areola, moving in closer on each pass.
“Or down here?” He skimmed his knuckles down the quivering skin of her belly, stopping when he reached the shadow between her legs, the little patch of golden hair. His breath hot in her ear, voice a growl: “Right here, baby?” One finger ventured down, down…
“Oh.” She clutched at his biceps, leaned her forehead on his shoulder. “I want you inside me.”
He groaned. “It’ll hurt.”
“I don’t care.”
He made another sound, low and hungry. “Alright. Okay, sweetheart, alright. But let me make you feel good first.”
He put his arms around her and picked her up – he was so strong – and shuffled up to the head of the bed, turned around and put his back against the wall. He stretched his legs out and arranged her so she straddled his lap. He murmured to her, low and encouraging. “Come here, baby, there you go, just like that.”
His hand slipped between her legs.
And he leaned in to press his mouth to her breast.
“You ever touch yourself?” he asked against her skin, and he managed to sound sweetly curious, just before his tongue flicked her nipple. His fingertips parted her sex carefully, gently, just teasing.
“Yeah, but–” She couldn’t breathe, alive with sensation. “But not – not like–” Never like this. Never in a way that made her want to fly apart.
He chuckled. “You’re a good girl, yeah. Let’s see. I bet…” He found her entrance with his index finger, probed just right. And his thumb found a spot that sent sharp pleasure arcing through her nerves.
“God.” She dug her fingers into his shoulders and her hips rolled, driving her down onto his hand.
“Attagirl.” He pulled her nipple into his mouth and suckled.
He drove her slowly at first, and then harder, asking for more, telling her how good she felt, how tight, how wet, leaving shiny wet kisses along her breasts, stubble scratching her skin. When she came, he had three fingers inside her, and the stretch burned, but it felt amazing, and she was rolling her hips shamelessly, driving the rhythm.
She closed her eyes and let the sparks overtake her, the steady pulsing warmth of pleasure that radiated through every inch of her. It was good, it was so good.
She slumped boneless against his chest, panting.
He smoothed her hair back off her face, petting her back, her ribs.
“Good girl.” He kissed her forehead, her temple. “Jesus, I just…” The awe in his voice warmed her in a whole different way, one she wanted to pull around her like a blanket.
She lifted her head for a kiss and he gave her one, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, demanding and on-edge.
Oh, she thought. Oh no. She was floaty and golden, but he was still hard.
With a new boldness brought on by afterglow, she fumbled her hand down to his lap and wrapped her hand around his cock.
He hissed, hips lifting up into her grip. “Baby, no, it’s alright.”
She fixed him with a stern look – as stern as she could manage in her post-coital haze. “I said I want you inside me, Ghost. I meant it.”
She thought his eyes might roll back in his head. “Jesus. You can’t just say…”
She gave his length one long, inexpert stroke, and he gritted his teeth.
“You can’t, baby, you can’t – I’m gonna – Shit, shit, okay.” He kissed her again, teeth sharp on her bottom lip, panting into her mouth. “You sure? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be easy.” Gasping, almost pleading. “I will, I promise. I won’t hurt you too bad.” He rolled her onto her back, settled in between her legs.
Maggie caught his face in her hands, held him still. “Ghost,” she said, seriously. “I know you won’t hurt me. I trust you.”
He shut his eyes and whimpered, turning his face into her touch, kissing her wrist. “Alright, baby. Alright.”
He pulled her legs up around his narrow hips, reached between them to line them up. And then the head of his cock was at her entrance, and he was easing in, and in, a fraction at a time. It wasn’t like his fingers – he felt huge. It did hurt, but she wanted it, wanted him. She gripped his arms and said, “I’m okay. I promise.”
And then he was all the way inside, and her throat closed up; she wanted to cry.
He leaned down and kissed her, holding perfectly still inside her. “I’m sorry,” he said against her mouth. “Is it too much?”
It was. It was the most overwhelming experience of her life. It was exquisite.
She settled her hands at his lower back, right in the sinewy dip above his ass. She thought she would always remember his eyes in that moment, hopeful and worried and brimming with emotion. “You’re amazing,” she told him, and felt a smile break across her face. “You have no idea.”
His hips kicked, an involuntary twitch in reaction to her words – and oh. Oh.
“You can move,” she gasped. “Oh, you can – please.”
He did. Easy at first, shallow and slow. The burn gave way to friction, to a tangle of sensation she couldn’t name. His body rolled above hers, all rippling muscle and slick tan skin, his breath coming ragged and deep as he thrust into her again, and again, and again.
He was beautiful. And he was hers.
When he came, buried to the hilt, growling against her throat, back leaping under her hands, that was the blinding thought that carried her over the edge a second time: he was hers.