Secrets and Sins:Raphael(45)

       
           



       

"Is this pity sex?" he asked, reaching behind him and cupping her head,  massaging her scalp. Her gasp whispered over his skin. "I mean if it is,  I'm not complaining."

"Yes, it's totally pity sex." She chuckled. "And I never did get to  thank you for all the art supplies Gabriel brought by today." A pause.  "Why did you do it?"

Because I wanted to see you smile, a real smile. And hear you laugh.  Most of all I wanted you to be happy. "Because you're sexy when you  paint."

She stilled behind him, but then she chuckled again, strummed her  fingertips over his chest once more before shifting to his shoulders,  trailing down his arms, and then up and over to his back.

"I love your tattoos," she whispered, tracing the outline of the phoenix  rising from the ashes covering nearly half his back. "They're  beautiful. Like living, breathing art. I'd love to draw you just like  this one day." The wonder in her reverent tone stroked his heart just as  her fingers caressed his skin. No one had ever talked to him like her.  As if she found him beautiful. Worthy. Special.

Hell. Next he would be spouting a damn sonnet.

"What does this one mean?" she asked. He glanced down and watched her  follow the circles of the Dara knot on his left biceps. The Celtic  symbol resembling an oak tree was one of his first tattoos. One of the  first meaningful ones. At sixteen, he'd stridden into a tattoo parlor,  slapped down his fake ID, and later walked out with barbwire inked  around his arm. Angry, a big fuck you to everyone. And the two afterward  had been as well. Not until a couple of years later had he learned to  value the art, appreciate the symbols that could be acts of rebellion or  beautiful pieces that reflected his soul, who he was. The Dara knot  came right after that decision.

"It's called a Dara knot. It means oak tree and symbolizes the inner  strength, wisdom, and power that's deep within us in times of trouble.  It reminds me to stay strong and stable regardless of the hell going  down around me."

"It's gorgeous." She replaced her finger with her mouth, grazing her  lips over one of the roots. Her lashes lifted, meeting his gaze. Heat  blazed so hot in the green depths, he almost touched his face, sure his  skin was singed. Unable to not touch her, he rubbed the backs of his  knuckles down her silken cheek, savoring the contrast of her soft skin  with his rough fingers. She twisted her head, and he brushed her lips  instead of her face. Keeping him visually ensnared, she lowered her  hands, shifted them to his abdomen … lower …

"Greer," he gritted out as she drew a haphazard pattern back and forth above the waistband of his jeans. "Fucking touch me."

Her smile widened just a fraction. Damn, he wanted to bite that plump  bottom curve, just sink his teeth in it, and hear her whimper. He  lowered his head to mate fantasy and fiction, but then she pushed his  belt through the buckle. Freed the button. Dragged down the zipper.

"Baby." He moaned as she cupped him, wrapped her fingers around his cock  and squeezed. She stroked up his length, over the dark and throbbing  head, then returned to the wide base to begin the torturous and just  fucking good trek all over again. One pump of her hand. Another. Two  more, and he ground his molars together afraid he would start babbling.

Then she disappeared.

The abrupt loss of her touch startled him, and he parted his lips,  prepared to kick pride's ass to the curb and beg her to touch him again,  to keep destroying his mind with pleasure. But before he could utter  the first word, she was in front of him, kneeling, her sexy mouth only  inches away from his cock.

Oh. Shit.

Once more he was seconds away from pleading. Only this time for her lips on his dick, sucking him deep, swallowing him.

"I've never … " she murmured, flickering her gaze up to him before  focusing on his hard, aching erection. "Can I?" She trailed a fingertip  up the vein standing out in stark relief under his taut skin.

She'd never what? Given him a blow job or given head, period? One  thrilled him. The other …  Mine roared in his head, had him gripping her  hair, tugging until her face tipped up to his. He pulled her up. Met her  halfway. His mouth crashed over hers, his tongue plunging deeply and  claiming all that sweetness for himself. He swallowed her gasp, offered a  dark groan. Their mouths tangled, mated. Fucked. Imitating how he would  take her soon. Very damn soon.

Pushing him away, she lowered to her knees, recaptured his cock, and  slowly-so damn slow he almost lost his mind-opened her lips over him.  Engulfed him in her moist heat. Her tongue slid over his length,  flattening as she took him to nearly the back of her throat before  retreating in a slick glide of tongue, lips, and pleasure. In moments,  he had the answer to his question in the untutored rhythm and uncertain  strokes of her hand. But fuck if it wasn't the best he'd ever had. The  most beautiful.                       
       
           



       

A growl rumbled up from the depths of him, rolled in his throat, and out his mouth.

"Fuck, Greer." He grasped her head, held her steady as his erection  bumped her damp mouth. "Open for me." She complied, and he watched  through narrowed eyes as his cock disappeared between her lips. "That's  so pretty, baby. So fucking pretty. Again."

He withdrew, pushed forward. Withdrew, pushed forward. She started an  eye-crossing suck that demanded everything in him-his pleasure, his  come, his heart. Pleas and commands spilled from him. Suck it harder.  Faster. Take me deeper. Good girl.

His gut clenched with the need to come, to explode in her mouth, down  her throat. But shit, he wanted it to last. To never end. Yet as an  electric pulse tingled at the back of his neck, the base of his spine,  and in his balls, he couldn't hold it off. And she wouldn't let him. Her  fist tightened on his cock, and she concentrated on the rounded tip, by  now so sensitive one flick of her wicked tongue and the top of his  fucking head would probably blow.

"Damn it," he swore, and yanked on her hair, trying to alert her without words that he was going to come. "Baby."

But she didn't heed the warning, just sucked harder. And he was gone.  The orgasm slammed into him, and he jerked under the power of it. He  poured into her mouth, felt her recoil at the first blast before taking  it all. She grabbed his hips, held him in her mouth and accepted every  last drop of him.

Jesus.

She'd destroyed him. With desire. With pleasure. With her selflessness.

He studied her, unable to move. A faint blush stained her cheeks at his  blatant scrutiny. Her shoulders moved in a self-conscious little shrug,  her fingernails scraping over the denim covering his thighs.

"Come here, princess," he murmured.

She rose, and didn't utter a protest as he quickly stripped her of the  long-sleeved shirt, jeans, bra, and panties. Her hands fluttered  nervously by her sides as she stood naked before him, and even that was  sexy. Innocent. She'd just given him the blow job of a damn lifetime,  and still retained enough modesty to be embarrassed about standing naked  in front of him.

Affection and humor kicked the corner of his mouth up as he moved to his  feet and pushed his jeans down. Passion softened the anxiety in her  eyes, around her lush mouth. She tipped her head back, and he took what  she offered so sweetly. This kiss was gentler, more tender but no less  hungry. He swept inside, drew on her tongue, invited her to dance with  him. And she accepted the invitation.

He cupped her face, planted one last kiss to her mouth, then turned,  placing her on his bed. Leaning back on his heels between her spread  thighs, that sense of rightness overwhelmed him again. She belonged  here, in his bed, saturating his pillows and sheets with her unique  scent. Would he be able to walk into this room again and not see her  lying here, writhing under his hands, eyes hazy with need, hands  reaching for him? Doubtful.

He smoothed his palms up her slender legs, glimpsing the wet, glistening  curls between them. On a groan, he plunged two fingers into the  grasping, hot core of her. She cried out, arched high and hard, nails  digging into his arms. Firm, slick muscles quivered and clutched at his  fingers, and he pulled free. Then drove deep again. God, she milked him,  and his renewed cock complained, demanding to be buried in her  tight-as-a-fist sex. Not yet. "Not just yet," he murmured, setting up a  fast, erotic rhythm and surging into her until his knuckles bumped her  swollen folds.

"Raphael, please," she gasped, bowing off the mattress. Sweat gleaming on her breasts and stomach. "Please. Inside me."

Her words snapped the tenuous, frayed rein on his control. With  movements he wished were gentler, smoother, he gripped her hips, tilted  them high until her ass hovered above the bed, and thrust. Twin groans  of pleasure-one high and soft, the other low and rough-filled the room.  He fell forward, his palms denting the pillow on either side of her  head. His head dropped, and he struggled to breathe past the hunger  clawing at his balls, sizzling up his spine, and the ecstasy enveloping  his cock like an oiled, two-sizes-too-small glove.