Mona Lisa Blossoming m-2 Page 13

  "Put your arms around my neck," he growled roughly, his voice low and thick.

  Biting my lip, I lifted my arms up above and behind me, wrapping them around his neck. I looked like a Christmas ornament dangling from his neck, and felt like one—on total display.

  "Spread your legs."

  Quivering, I jerkily obeyed, moving my feet wider apart, and trembled at what I saw in the mirror. I looked like a wanton stranger, naked and exposed while Amber stood large and powerful behind me, still wearing pants. Feet apart, arms lifted, my body was completely opened to him, to his body, his hands, his eyes. Shame twined with excitement, bedeviling, writhed like a living snake within me, making me shudder, making my small breasts swell even more, elongating my nipples, wetting my thighs with more rivulets of desire.

  I could not bare to look at myself any longer. My eyes squeezed shut as I gasped in air.

  "Open your eyes, sweetheart." Roughly tender, but still a command.

  My eyes fluttered open.

  "Watch me make you come," he whispered in a voice dark as midnight, coarse as gravel.

  I almost exploded just hearing him say that. And then I did as one big callused finger touched me, found my swollen little pearl and stroked it. I lit up like a firecracker, spilling the room with light. Then I sparked and burst in air. I trembled and shuddered and cried as I exploded, and then cried again as I watched him sink that big finger back into me. Watched the long length disappear up into my body as I twitched and jerked. I watched him—and felt him—slide that fat finger in and out of me, pumping me, prolonging my orgasm, milking my release to its very last convulsive drop.

  I collapsed against him, stunned, amazed that Amber was doing this. Playing me like this. So easily, so confidently, so masterfully. And he wasn't done.

  He slid his broad finger, covered with my juice, out of my grasping sheath and sucked the wetness of my pleasure into his mouth, his brilliant eyes a yellow blaze. "You taste like passion," he said, and I quivered and almost came again.

  "Amber." It was a plea, a hoarse demand.

  He stepped back and I gently swayed, barely able to stand on my own. Carefully, he eased down the zipper of his pants and freed his erection. It sprang out heavy, thick and long, the engorged crown crimson with heated arousal, liquid excitement leaking from its tip.

  It looked happy in its freedom, bobbing in eagerness as he kicked out of his pants.

  "Kneel down," he rasped harshly.

  My heart, only just slowing, kicked into high gear again as I sank down onto my knees.

  He positioned me so that I was turned sideways to the mirror, so that I could watch both of us in profile. "Brace your hands in front of you."

  My eyes glued to his in the mirror as I bent forward and braced myself on hands and knees before him like a supplicant, like a sacrifice, like prey he had chased and brought down. He stood behind me for a long, long moment, a towering figure, both of us breathing hard. Then he knelt behind me, and that part of him that would enter me was tall and upright, like a thick heavy pole jutting obliquely out from his body.

  "Watch," he growled.

  Just that one word and like a conditioned animal, my womb tightened, my sheath shivered, my nipples tingled, and all the muscles of my body clenched.

  "Open wider."

  "Oh, God." I bit back a whimper and spread my knees wider. Conversely, the opening of my legs made me feel more empty, more hollow inside.

  "Keep your eyes open. Watch us." With jaw clenched, he guided himself to my dripping, shadowy cleft that was achingly, throbbingly hungry once again.

  I felt him push against my dewy nether lips, and in the mirror, I saw him sink and push and grunt his way into me. Invading me. In and in. Another thick inch. Then another. Pull back, push in harder, with more force, fighting and pushing his way inside me despite my wetness.

  He felt massive. I felt full, lodged, wonderfully crammed.

  He halted halfway in.

  "No," I cried, straining back against him. "Don't stop."

  "What do you want?"

  "All of you."

  He continued his slow, deep plunge. I groaned and panted and pushed my hips back against him and gasped, "Yes… more… oh, God! Oh, God!.. Please, more…"

  The light came like an exploding essence called out from our bodies, so blindingly bright that I had to squint my eyes to see. In the reflected glass, we looked like angels aglow. Doing a most unangelic thing.

  One heavy grunting thrust with his hips and he pushed all the way in, nudging against my womb, and I went off again in a second glorious release, crying out, gasping, spasming around him, squeezing him so tight that he groaned. Feeling so weak and trembly that I collapsed onto my elbows, my cheek resting against the floor. When the waves of passion finally eased to lap in gentle swells against the shore of me, my lashes lifted once more and I saw his bright amber eyes watching me in the mirror, his face tight, his body tense, and I realized that he was still full and hard within me.

  "Watch," he said hoarsely as he began to move.

  I gasped, shook my head, and cried out, knowing what he wanted and knowing I could not take more. "No… no…" My body twitched and jerked, reacting beyond my control. I was too sensitive. It was too soon. Too much. I sobbed and jerked forward to dislodge him, to break free of his overwhelming fullness. He grabbed my hips, stopping my escape, pulling me back with surging force against him, sliding back in.

  I shook my head wildly. "No, I can't." Tears trickled down my cheeks.

  Amber's arm clamped diagonally across the center of my chest, lifting me up and back against him. The other hand gripped my hip in an unbreakable iron grip, keeping us together.

  "Shhh," he crooned soothingly. "I won't move. Just let me stay inside you."

  I calmed at his promise, didn't fight him, but couldn't stop trembling. My body was on overload, my swollen tissues quivering at the slightest movement. Even just the thick unmoving presence of him deep within me, stretching my screamingly sensitive nerve endings was only just barely tolerable. As long as he didn't move.

  He held me like that, both of us on our knees, my back pressed tight against his chest, my bottom snugged tight in an unbreakable line against his groin as I knelt in the Vee of his spread knees. His thighs were like massive tree trunks surrounding me, his arm a heavy restraining weight against my chest, caging me captive against him. I was impaled by him. Stretched by him.

  When I had quieted, when I had stopped trembling, when my tenseness had eased and I tiredly relaxed back against him, letting him support my full weight, he nuzzled the top of my head with his chin. "You're beautiful," he murmured.

  "No, I'm not."

  "You are."

  "Only in your eyes."

  "Then see yourself through my eyes. I'm going to turn us," and with that warning, he shifted us slowly, carefully edging around until we faced the mirror once again. The move was surprisingly easy for him to accomplish, and no effort on my part. He just pressed me tight against him. His knees made two gentle surges that jangled my nerves so that I tensed, but not enough for me to fight him. It was the sight of us in the mirror that made me gasp.

  He was like a pagan god of carnal desire, naked, gloriously pow-erful, holding a delicate maiden in his arms, surrounding her, almost encompassing her. She—me—looked so much smaller. Fragile and helpless in his massive arms, against that hard body that swelled with brutal strength, that bulged with muscles around her like a living, imprisoning tower of flesh. And yet she leaned back against him trustingly. And he held her, cradled her, restrained her tenderly, protectively in his arms, even as his eyes burned with the fierceness of desire, and sparked hotly with unspent passion. The contrast, the trust, was a beautiful image, innocent even. From the front, you couldn't see the hot, hard length of him buried snug within me. All you saw was the sleepy, sensual languor of my eyelids, the light rose color of passion—either spent or rising, in this case both—dusting my face, my neck, my chest. And I was
beautiful like that, my lips red with passion, my eyelids drooping with sensual languor. My breasts slight, delicate, high and firm, accented by my narrow waist and the feminine flare of my hips. My dark brown nipples were jutting peaks, crying for attention. The hair between my legs was dark and enticing, moist from my passion.

  Just the picture of us like that—spent passion, unspent passion, stirring passion all twirling, swirling around us—was like an invisible caress. Pleasure stirred within me once more, and the liquid heat of my renewed desire anointed him inside me. The knowledge of what was beyond that mirrored picture, what lay lodged thick and heavy and strumming within me like a dormant threat, was a subtle stimulation. The outer wetness of my triangle grew as I bathed him within, making him groan softly, pleasurably. Making him throb and jerk in involuntary upward surges within me, a stirring, quiescent beast.

  "Watch us."

  His words were like a hot pulse that quickened my womb, tightening me around him even more.

  "Dear Goddess, you hold me so sweetly," he muttered, his chest rising and falling, lifting us both to his rhythm. He was like a giant sea of muscle surrounding me, within me. And I gave myself up to him. Floated in his pulsing hardness.

  He growled deep in his chest, his brilliant feral eyes locked with mine as he sensed my acquiescence, the giving of myself to him wholly in whatever he wished to do.

  But all that he wished to do was smooth his hands up the narrow flatness of my belly to rest just beneath my aching breasts, just barely touching the soft undersides with his thick fingers, his longs thumbs bracketing the sides of my breasts. And then stopping there, holding those big hands still, leaving my nipples straining, aching, quivering to be touched.

  "Amber," I whispered, whimpered, my hands coming to rest with hot need upon his wrists, my chest arching forward into his teasing, not quite cupping hands.

  "What do you desire?" His breath was a hot stirring caress against my ear, making me shiver.

  "Touch me."

  "Where?"

  A soft whimper of need. A gasped confession. "My nipples."

  "They're beautiful, your nipples. So sensitive, so responsive." His voice was like dark, rough honey. "Ask me to touch your beautiful nipples."

  I rolled my head back against him in denial, in embarrassment.

  His forefingers moved in gentle strokes, teasing the underside of my breasts. Nice but not where I wanted those fingers.

  "Say it," he whispered.

  I shook my head but my want was too much. "Amber, please touch my… beautiful nipples." My face flamed. But as his hands moved up and his fingers brushed my aching nipples, embarrassment faded beneath the hot sway of passion.

  "Watch how beautiful you are in my hands." And I did. I watched as he molded me, stroked me, gently squeezed and tugged on my nipples, elongating the dark rosy tips even as I felt him elongating within me. I felt the heavy beat of his heart against my back, felt a second echoing heartbeat within me. My tightly stretched secret flesh felt each quiver, each dewy drip of excitement that leaked from him, felt each lifting flex of his heavy pole.

  I wriggled against him, letting him know that I would welcome his movement now. But he only squeezed my nipples hard, firmly. Rolled them with his rough fingertips. And continued to tug on the sensitive tips, pulling them out. Pulling them until they were almost obscenely long, jutting out like little pointy fingers.

  "So beautiful," he murmured. "So incredibly responsive. Feel what I feel when I'm inside you."

  His hands snaked down my belly, dipped gently between my stretched lips into my moist cavity with cramming fingers, feeling where we met, where he filled me. A few deep feathery caresses and then his hands left me and returned to my breasts.

  With his first two fingers and thumbs creating little sheaths, with the moisture from my own vagina, he moved his fingers up and down the length of my stretched out nipples, tugging, pulling, squeezing the sensitive points, pumping the fuller areolas with a sliding movement. Squeezing then releasing.

  "One more time," he rumbled like deep thunder. "Come for me."

  He tugged with sudden fierce force and squeezed my nipples achingly hard. So hard that pain became sharp, almost unbearable pleasure, and I cried out and came, singing, zinging with passion like an instrument that he played at will. I convulsed deeply within, clamping tightly around his thick, throbbing pole, and like a silent mirroring echo, his fingers squeezed tightly, convulsively around my nipples. I convulsed and convulsed, waves of almost painful pleasure spreading hot and pervasive as a scorching wash of heat spilled through me. I came on a release harder, more violent, than the other two that had come before, feeling as if I was tearing apart inside, or trying to tear him apart. Trying to squeeze him dry, grind him flat. And the squeeze and press and pull on my nipples was a silent echo of what I did to him inside.

  Amber groaned and shuddered and heaved as if I were hurting him, and maybe I was. His fingers were so tightly, ferociously clamped around my nipples. And I couldn't stop myself, couldn't control my inner muscles. Could only spasm and squeeze and clench him in my violent rolling climax until I freed his inner tears and he was crying within me, gushing within me hotly in a fountain of release that splashed with wet heat against my contracting womb.

  When the light ebbed and our shudders ceased, when only little ripples of pleasure flowed through us now and again as if reluctant to leave us fully, he let my sore and sensitive nipples slip from his wet fingers and eased from my body. He carried me to his bed, and pulled me against the bigness of him, gathering me up in his arms, nuzzling the tendrils clinging damply to my forehead.

  "God, Amber," I muttered, puffing hot breaths against his throat.

  "What is it?" he rumbled.

  "Nothing. Just… God."

  Against me, beside me, I felt him smile.

  Chapter Eleven

  The delicious smell of cooking food teased my senses awake. I crawled from Amber's bed, leaving him asleep, and made my way down the hallway to shower in my room.

  Wondering where the others were, I opened my senses as I walked downstairs. There were heartbeats scattered around the house, but it was the ones beating more quickly, the ones gathered outside that drew my interest. I slipped out the front door, walked past the rounded corner of the east ballroom, and found what I'd suspected. Wiley had come back.

  He was down on all fours, prancing around the lawn in a gentle canter. Casio was on his back, the skirts of her dress bunched up, her thin legs sticking out like sticks as she bounced on Wiley's back. She was giggling.

  Tersa and Jamie watched them from beneath a hanging canopy of Spanish moss draped over the spreading branches of a giant oak tree, their red hair darkened to shadowy brown under the dim starlight as clouds covered the moon.

  Wiley's face and limbs were smudged with dirt, and his hair once again tangled. But the clothes he wore were clean. Another set of Thaddeus's, I saw, the waistband loose, the cuff of the pants rolled up. He pranced to a stop beneath the towering oak and let his passenger disembark. She did so with clumsy grace, her eyes alight, her smile revealing dimples in her cheeks.

  Wiley stood. Then with a casual shove, he sent Jamie toppling down to the ground and pounced on him. Pinning the larger boy to the ground, Wiley bared his teeth dangerously close to Jamie's throat and growled softly.

  "No, Wiley!" I shouted, rushing toward them as Tersa said in a firm voice, "Wiley, no!"

  Wiley looked up at me, gave me a smile—at least that's what I think it was… a lot of teeth but no growl—then lowered his face and snarling teeth back to Jamie.

  "It's okay, Mona Lisa," Jamie said, making no attempt to move or fight back. He just lay there calmly, as if this was a routine they'd already gone through several times before.

  "He's just establishing the fact that he's dominant," Jamie explained. "Something which I have absolutely no wish to challenge."

  Only when little Casio put her hand on the Wolf Boy's shoulder and softly said, "No,
Wiley," did he release Jamie.

  "Likes you girls well enough," Jamie said as he got to his feet slowly. "Doesn't seem to like guys as much." He grinned, making his freckles dance. "But I think he's getting used to me."

  "Jamie," I said, fear still a bitter taste in my throat, "you should have stayed inside. You shouldn't have put yourself at risk."

  "It's okay, Mona Lisa," Jamie said, his voice soft, looking at me with that new maturity he'd acquired since his sister's attack. "I knew Wiley wouldn't hurt me as long as I didn't fight back."

  You couldn't have known, I wanted to shout at him. His freckles were a cheerful scatter across a face that lifted often and easily into a smile. But there was a budding strength beneath that sweet charm. He was a boy becoming a man. And I had to stand back and let him grow, let him make his own decisions, even though I wanted badly to keep him wrapped in safety.

  Wiley came closer, sniffing me. I held out my hands and let him smell me.

  "Thank you for rescuing me from that alligator," I told the wild boy, "although it was stupid to jump in and wrestle something three times bigger and heavier than yourself."

  I doubted Wiley understood the words, but he certainly caught my scolding tone. He grinned up at me, much as Jamie had, unrepentant, making me sigh and smile. "I'm surrounded by fearless boys, it seems."