My lips find the Kraken on one shoulder, red and purple and orange, tentacles intricate and delicate and I find myself following them, powerless to stop.
When my mouth reaches a nipple again, she gasps. I flatten my hand against the raven on her sternum, damp with our sweat, flick my tongue over her nipple again.
“Seth,” she murmurs.
“Hmm?” I ask, nipple between my teeth as I look up at her.
She inhales again, the sound sharp and delicate.
“Nothing,” she says. “I just wanted you to look at me.”
I slide my hand downward, away from the raven. I slide it across the blank softness of her belly, over the hill and valley of her hips, over the velvet of her inner thigh. Finding Delilah’s clit is second nature and she sighs as I slide two fingers around it, one on either side, pinching it gently.
She groans softly, shifts her hips.
“Again?” she says, her voice slightly rough.
“You’re not tired, are you?” I ask.
I’m already on my knees on the floor, lips pressed to one inner thigh.
“Not yet,” she says, her fingers winding through my hair again.
“Good,” I say, and suck her clit into my mouth.
Her whole body jerks. Her hand in my hair tightens and she pulls me against her, hips bucking against my face she makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a grunt.
I stroke my tongue across her, feel the vibration that runs through her. I push her thighs apart, let her grab my hair as roughly as she wants. Delilah fills my senses: the scent of her arousal, mingled with sweat and my own scent. Her taste. The sounds she makes, breathy and gasping. The feel of her thighs on my hands, her fingers in my hair. The sight of her from this angle, nothing but plush curves with her head thrown back.
She comes fast, without saying a word, only noises. Her hips buck against me but I don’t relent. I lick her harder, faster, slide my fingers into her and stroke her from the inside, even wetter than before, her juices and mine mingling, dripping out onto my hand and the couch.
This time she gasps my name just before it slams into her, one quick breath — Seth — and then she’s trembling, both legs shaking, and when she finishes I rest my forehead against the inside of one thigh, my hand on the other.
I’m still drunk, sex-addled, half-exhausted, and I think: what if I didn’t have to give this up?Chapter TwentyDelilahBetween my legs, Seth takes a deep breath, his forehead still pressed into my thigh, just above the tattooed lace garter. He’s got one hand on my calf, the other, stickier hand draped over my thigh, half on my hip.
Before I can ask if he’s all right, he pulls back and practically drapes himself on the floor, one arm curled over his head, the other by his side on the smooth hardwood.
“You okay?” I ask, half rolling over, propping myself on one elbow.
He gives me a thumbs up from the floor, looking over at me, blue eyes half-closed. I flop over onto my belly, half off the couch, and reach a hand toward him.
Then I lift my head and actually look around for a moment.
“Wasn’t the couch over there?” I ask, nodding at an area rug that’s at least three feet away.
Seth glances from the rug to the couch, then at me.
“Yeah,” he says, a grin sneaking onto his face. “It also used to have more cushions.”
I look over my shoulder, and he’s right: throw pillows and cushions are liberally scattered at the other end of the couch.
“Oops,” I say, and absolutely don’t mean it.
“You’re an animal,” he tells me, closing his eyes, grin intact.
“I’m not the one on the floor.”
“You pushed me off the couch.”
“I did no such thing.”
He doesn’t answer right away, so I just lie there and let myself look at him in the half-light and the flickering of the fire. It’s a luxury, looking at him like this: stark naked and half-asleep. Relaxed. Defenseless and oddly sweet.
And beautiful. Just so fucking beautiful.
You’re not alone in that opinion, I think.
How many other women have laid like this, thinking the exact same —
I half-roll, half-stand from the couch before I can finish that thought, manage to get my feet under myself before I fall over completely, even though I feel like my bones are made of rubber. Seth just casts me a skeptical glance from the floor.
“Be right back,” I say, and head for the bathroom.Twenty minutes later, I’m carefully removing my eyelashes when he knocks on the bathroom door.
“Come in, I’m just — ow.”
I accidentally yank on my own eyelash. How do people wear these all the time? They’re hell.
“Just making sure you hadn’t fallen in,” he says, stepping through the door. He’s wearing a very fluffy, very white robe, a second one dangling from his hands.