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Arthur Carstairs, famous horror author and my newfound favorite person in the whole world, traces the outlines of my body with a feather-light touch.
“Tease,” I say, reaching between us to work his pants open. I get the button popped, but I stall on the zipper when those fingertips trace their way to my nipples.
He pinches and twists the tight buds. Kneads and cups and massages my boobs.
And ooooh my god. Why have I never played with my own body like this? It feels freaking amazing, with sparks fizzing through my veins. I’m swaying on my knees, dizzy with sensation, especially as he kisses my neck. There’s a knot gathering in my lower belly, and it’s getting tighter. Heavier.
Yeesh.
But maybe Arthur is the secret ingredient. Maybe he needs to do it for these nerve endings to crackle under my skin, for the heavy pulse to beat between my thighs. For my whole body to flush hot all over.
“You’re perfect,” he grits out, straightening up to frown at me from behind his glasses. I hope he doesn’t take them off. Hope the lenses fog over. “God, Penny. Are we really doing this? I’m twelve years older than you, you know.”
“Ancient,” I agree. “But I like old, spooky things, remember?”
He rumbles out a laugh, but it chokes off when I finally get that zipper moving. Reaching into his pants, I draw out the hard, hot length of him, so thick and alive in my hand.
Can feel his pulse ticking beneath my palm. Can feel the way he shivers when I spread the beading moisture over the head with my thumb. My heart pitter-patters in my chest as I stroke him slowly, from root to tip, and I love the feel of him. His heat and heft and silky, sliding skin. He smells like soap and musk.
“You’re pretty big,” I say, marveling at my prize.
“You needn’t sound so surprised.”
Ha. “Sorry, I’m not surprised, it’s just… Will it hurt?”
There’s a beat. A long pause as Arthur weighs my question, his body gone still as stone. Like a sexy gargoyle again. And I watch, mouth dry, as this older man sorts through the implications, and what it says about me, about us, and how serious I am about him.
Because I may be untouched so far, may be fresh out of the metaphorical box, but lord, I want Arthur Carstairs to touch me everywhere.
Oh god, please don’t let him freak out. Don’t let him go all faux-noble and try to make this decision for me; don’t let my inexperience ruin us before we’ve begun.
Please, please, please. I want him.
The room is quiet as Arthur draws in a ragged breath. Then he gusts it all out in one go, shoulders setting like he’s made some big decision, and says, “No, it won’t hurt. Not if we do this right.”
Yes! Oh, we’re on. We’re so on, and I whoop as he tosses me onto the center of the mattress. Arthur crawls on top of my panting body, as lithe and powerful as a bespectacled panther, and shoves my thighs apart.
He grips both of my wrists in one big hand, then stretches my arms overhead and presses my fingers against the wooden slats of the headboard.
“Hold on,” he says. “And don’t let me catch you letting go.”
Oh hell yes. I cling to the gnarled wood for dear life, excitement buzzing through my veins. “What are you going to do?”
“Behave, and you’ll find out.”
Aaaaah! Why do I love this bossy thing so much? I never behave, and yet here I am biting my lip to keep from babbling, my fingertips digging into the headboard. My chest heaves up and down with each ragged breath.
“So fucking perfect,” Arthur says, speaking to himself as he crawls down my outstretched body. I pant and huff and arch beneath him, desperate for any contact. A single brush of skin makes me light up like a sparkler.
When he ducks down and sucks my left nipple into his mouth, I wail at the ceiling. The spiders up there hunker on their cobwebs, probably wishing we’d shut the hell up. Too bad.
It’s so hot and wet and tingly, and when Arthur scrapes his teeth over me there, an arrow of heat pierces my low belly. I’m slick between my legs already, swollen and aching, and he’s barely touched me.
This is torture.
This is awesome.
Rough breaths panting against my skin, Arthur switches sides, the ends of his black hair tickling my chest.
