Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (books for 20 year olds TXT) 📗

let it go. She laid her right arm along the rise of her hip. It was a brazen pose, and she was stil quaking, but she liked the glow that had sprung up in Peter’s eyes.

He considered her from head to foot. “’Tis a very fine offer,” he said at last. “Very fine indeed. Let him take it, shal we, while I begin.”

He picked up his palette, and she closed her eyes.

The wine had loosened her scruples. She did not feel so frightened. She liked his eyes upon her and had a sudden overwhelming desire to make him ache. She very much liked his eyes upon her, but without the cover of the muslin she could not return to that gentle, inebriating rub against the arm of the chaise.

Her nipples peaked instantly at the memory, and the brushstrokes stopped. She smiled, though the ache she had hoped to cause him had been visited upon her, sharper even than before. She rubbed her legs together, like an evening cricket, but the pain only magnified. It beat hard, like a heart, hotter with each thump. She brought the heel of the folded leg closer … closer.

The throbbing pleasure of contact nearly made her cry out. Now if she could only lift herself against it, against his touch. She arched infinitesimal y, and the charge went up her spine. She couldn’t let him see this. Or could she?

Again she lifted and again. It was a slow undulation of her hips, that’s al . The instinctive movement to some internal music. In her mind, though, her private Peter suckled those nipples, drawing them into an exquisite tightness, while his hand caressed her hip, her thigh and dipped easily into the space between her legs. Slowly, slowly he stroked her, stoking the fire.

Cam slitted her eyes. Peter gazed upon her, his attention undivided. What did he see? The bare-breasted fiancé of an unworthy painter or a woman openly disporting herself before a man she hardly knew. She wil ed him to see what she saw, to feel the primeval pounding of desire.

Her lids fluttered shut, and the Peter of her dream was there waiting. His hands were in her hair, plucking her pins loose and combing out her curls. He spread them over her breasts, rubbing the strands between his palms and the taut flesh. She turned to meet his lips.

“Beautiful,” the painting Peter said, and so did the one lying next to her, just before his tongue met hers. With a shift of her thighs, she let his ful ness come between them, prodding her throbbing bud gently. Ignoring her trembling, he brought his hand to join it, a perfect triumvirate—hand, mouth, cock.

At the easel, the painting Peter made a distracted noise.

He retreated to the shelves, searching for something. When his back turned, she slid a finger under the muslin, hiding the motion behind her knee. Immediately the glow turned hot. And this was Peter’s hand, obliging her, but he was growing rougher—oh, so rough—and his need bigger and bigger.

Her nipples tightened into ridged nubs of iron.

She pressed her legs together as hard as she could, lodging the roving fingers there like a cork. Oh, dare she?

Dare she? Peter turned from the shelves, and she closed her eyes. She could feel the rhythmic shake of her breasts, the growing warmth in her hips and bel y. Without warning, the blinding pleasure roared through her like a freight train.

With prodigious effort, she clung to a semblance of rectitude, holding her legs and arm stil and letting the heat that would have been dispel ed with wild bucking set her body on fire.

Hhhhhhhhhh, she said in a long, desperate exhale.

With eyes shut tight, she cursed her foolishness. To have al owed him to bear witness to such an act now seemed wanton beyond description. Yet she regretted nothing at al she’d let the dream Peter do. If only she had not confused the dream world with the real.

She waited for the lighthearted aside or the suggestive comment, but none came.

When the rush of her blood quieted, she heard him at last.

He was painting.

* * *

Peter held his arm steady. He knew what he’d seen. He’d seen