Secrets and Sins:Raphael(38)

       
           



       

Gentle fingers touched her chin, turned her face until she stared into  navy eyes so dark they almost appeared black. He'd moved so quietly she  hadn't noticed, but now his hip braced her outer thigh and his thumb  brushed over her cheekbone.

"Go ahead," he urged. "Finish it."

"For some inane reason, I thought Dad might actually have my back. For  one moment of blinding stupidity, I hoped he would rip Gavin a new one  for betraying his little girl, for bruising her heart. Instead he blamed  me. I can still see the disgust in his eyes when I walked into the  house. I was nothing more than a business transaction to him-to both of  them."

Her father's reaction had shredded her hope and relegated it back to the  land of unicorns and fairies where it belonged. And days later when  he'd ordered her out of his life and home permanently, he'd destroyed  whatever remnants of familial connection might have still existed.

"Greer, they were the disappointments, not you. When your father brought  you into this world, he assumed the God-given responsibility to care  for you, to protect you, to be your first knight in shining armor. Being  a father … " He paused, inhaled an audible breath, and his hold on her  face tightened the slightest bit. "Being a father," he continued, his  tone hoarse, "is more than bringing in money to the house or putting a  roof over his family's head. It's being there to kiss scraped knees, to  chase away monsters in the closet with a broom, to proudly post the  honor roll awards on the refrigerator with magnets. To make his family  feel safe. He is supposed to father, not dole out money like a bank  account. Any ATM can do that."

He leaned forward, pressed his lips to her forehead, the bridge of her  nose, and finally, her mouth. The kiss didn't resemble the tangle of  lips and tongues from the night before. This delicate press contained  none of the greed and heat from the night before. This kiss was soft,  comforting, affirming.

"He failed, baby. Both him and your mother. He should've been the  example of the man who would one day treasure and love you, treat you  like the princess you are. And she should've exhibited what it looks  like to demand respect, to love yourself, and to have higher esteem then  your bra size and bank account. Instead, he left you wide open for a  man just like him, and she didn't protect you. And still somehow you  managed to become a beautiful, self-sufficient, strong, intelligent  woman who doesn't just take people's shit. That doesn't make you  unworthy or damaged. It makes you a survivor. And for the record?" He  swept his thumb over her bottom lip, and a corner of his mouth curled.  "Survivors are hot as hell."

The laughter caught her by surprise-especially since it burst free from  her. And from the gleam in Raphael's gaze, she suspected that had been  his intent.

"Thank you, Raphael." He'd removed his hand from her so she reached for  him. Hesitated. Her fingers hovered over his tattooed arm, and his eyes  narrowed on the slightly trembling digits before switching to her face.  Slowly, she touched him. The muscles under his inked skin flexed, then  relaxed, and her heart thumped hard. He was so incredibly beautiful.  Walking art. Breathing passion. Living strength. She traced the bulge of  his biceps, unyielding even in repose.

"Why do you call me ‘Raphael'?" he asked. "Why not Rafe?"

"I figured only people closest to you were allowed to." She followed the  bold outline of an ornate Celtic symbol of a tree, keeping her  attention focused on her fingers as if there would be a test later.  "We're not exactly friends."

"No," he agreed. "I don't usually fuck my friends."

Her gaze jerked up to meet his. The faint, lazy half smile remained in  place, but his hooded stare burned with the same fire setting her skin  ablaze where they touched-his hip against her thigh, his arm underneath  her fingers. A hot hunger that couldn't be satisfied by food simmered in  her belly, pulsed in her sex. Everything tingled-her nipples, her  palms, the dip at the base of her spine. Hell, even the soles of her  bare feet.

"But I'm willing to make an exception in your case."





Chapter Nineteen

Greer blinked, momentarily speechless.

Did Rafe mean, no, they weren't friends but he would permit her to call  him by his shortened name? Or was he hinting, yes, they were friends, a  friend he had sex with? She parted her lips to ask … but then he grasped  her hand, interlaced their fingers. All questions, explanations-hell,  thoughts-were scattered as he straddled the long cushion, and drew her  legs over his thighs. Pressing their locked hands to the back of the  chair above their heads, he nabbed her other hand and repeated the  movement. The position left her open, vulnerable, her spine slightly  arched with her breasts pushing against the thin cotton robe. The lapels  draped over either side of her spread thighs, and the cool air of the  basement teased her skin, another caress added to the sensory overload.                       
       
           



       

He leaned forward, and the thick, long waves of his hair tickled her  cheeks; his breath teased her lips as if taunting her with the kiss she  needed … craved. Her chest rose and fell on her own soft pants. Just a  little while ago she'd been prepared to return to her room in order to  avoid just this. But now-now she longed for his tongue on her skin, his  hands in her hair, his cock penetrating her, filling her. Completing  her.

His head dipped. His mouth covered hers, taking but giving at the same  time. He pushed his tongue between her lips, licking, sucking, inviting  her to do the same. She'd noticed that about him first in his car and  again last night. He enjoyed sex. Took delight in it. From the lazy  thrust of his tongue to his deep rumble of pleasure, he seemed to savor  every taste, every stroke, every sound. He didn't hurry or skip right to  the intercourse. Didn't become impatient or frustrated.

He was a lover.

Her first.

He loosed her hands and tunneled his fingers through her hair, cradling  her head and tilting it for a deeper penetration. He consumed her,  lapping and tasting as if she were a heady treat, and he had an  insatiable sweet tooth. She clutched his back, tugging him closer for  more. Only he did this to her-made her toss all inhibition and restraint  aside. With him, she became this earthly, sexual creature, one focused  solely on pleasure. But only with him.

With a groan, he dragged his mouth over her jaw and down her neck. His  fingers tightened in her hair, tugging her head back. She whimpered, the  tiny bite to her scalp another erotic sensation in a landslide of them.  He raked his teeth down the tendon in her throat, retracing the path  with his tongue. Another soft cry escaped her, and she dug her  fingernails into his skin through his T-shirt. Suddenly, she wanted the  clothing off. Wanted to have his tight, golden skin under her hands.  Wanted to be flesh to flesh.

Impatient, she grasped the hem of his shirt and jerked it up. He  accommodated her by leaning back and, brushing her hands aside, reached  behind him and grabbed the material. In seconds, the top was over his  head and tossed to the floor.

"Oh, God," she breathed, awed, momentarily distracted by the seemingly  endless stretch of painted skin. She didn't know whether to stare or  touch. So she compromised and did both. Reverently, she slid her palms  up his ridged abdomen, over his chest and shoulders, and down his  sculpted arms. Stroking him possessed the illicit pleasure of touching a  Rembrandt or Picasso. Naughty, doing something she shouldn't, but  irresistible. "You're beautiful," she murmured.

Leaning forward, she opened her mouth over his left pectoral muscle,  tracing the claw of the highly stylized dragon that started at his hip,  unfurled over his stomach and chest, and ended over his shoulder. She  sank her teeth into the dense muscle, and his growl of approval vibrated  against her. His fingers fisted in her hair, pressing her harder to  him, encouraging her with his tight grip to do it again. Harder.

She complied.

As she soothed her tongue over the shallow dents, he tugged on her hair  once more, arching her neck back, tilting her head up for the kiss he  crushed to her mouth. He plundered, possessed, owned. And she accepted,  submitted, surrendered.

She parted her lips wider, demanding more of him. Desperate to be even  closer, she scooted forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and joined  them chest to chest, hip to hip.

"Rafe," she whispered, dropping her head back on her shoulders. The  thick rigid length of his cock ground against her folds and clit, and  she moaned deep and long. Pleasure pulsed through her in waves, eddying  in her belly, spilling from her core to dampen her cleft. The thin  material of her pajama shorts offered no resistance or barrier to the  hard erection rocking against her in short, subtle thrusts.