Page 9

"I'm allowed."

"You're being slow on purpose."

"Yeah," I say, and put my mouth on her.

She cries out, high and surprised. Her hand goes straight into my hair. I start slowly, with the flat of my tongue, long strokes that make her hips jump. Then I find the rhythm she wants without her saying a word, because her thighs tell me. They tighten around my head when I'm close and ease when I'm not. I follow the pull and release.

She tastes warm and clean, a little salty. The sounds she makes are low and unguarded and so far from the voice she used at the cider table that I almost lose my own control.

"There," she says, breathless. "Right there. Slower. Oh, God, don't change anything."

I don't. I hold her hips steady in both hands, the soft flesh giving under my fingers. Keep my tongue exactly where it is, pressing in small circles. Her heel digs into the middle of my back. Her stomach tightens under the freckles. Her hand twists in my hair. She says my name, half a word and half a sob. Then her whole body pulls tight and she comes against my mouth. Her thighs clamp down hard around my ears. I stay with her through all of it, gentler now, until her grip loosens and she gives a small shaky laugh and says, "Stop, stop, I'm too sensitive."

I lift my head. My beard is wet. She looks down at me with her chest heaving, her skin damp and shining all the way down her throat. The smile that spreads across her face is dazed and a little wicked.

"Come here," she says.

I crawl up the bed. She pulls me down by the back of the neck and kisses me, tasting herself on my mouth. The sound that comes out of me is embarrassing.

"You taste like me," she says against my lips.

"Carolina."

"Take your jeans off."

I do. I toe off my boots and stand at the edge of the bed to do the rest. She props herself on one elbow and watches me, openly, without a trace of shyness. Her eyes travel from my shoulders to my hips and settle on the front of my boxers, where I'm so hard it hurts.

"Those too," she says.

I take them off. She looks at me. Her tongue touches her lower lip.

"I'm not going to last if you do that."

"Then get on your back."

I lie down where she points. She swings a leg over my hips and kneels above me. The lamplight catches every line of her: the heavy swing of her breasts, the dark nipples, the soft shelf of her stomach, the broad curve of her thighs on either side of my hips. I put my hands on her thighs, because I have to put them somewhere. She's warm and soft and so beautiful that I can't speak.

"Look at me," she says.

"I am."

"Keep looking."

She lowers herself onto me slowly, one inch at a time. Her mouth opens. Her eyes stay on mine. I feel her close around me hot and tight and wet, so much that my head presses back into the pillow and a sound comes out of my chest that I didn't plan. She stops when she's fully seated. Her hands are flat on my chest. We stay there, not moving, breathing together.

"Okay?" I manage.

"Yes." She rocks her hips once, slowly. I swear. "Hold on to me."

I grip her hips. My fingers sink into her. I hold her while she finds her pace. She rolls her hips in long, deep movements, her breasts shifting with every motion, her hair falling forward around us. The iron frame creaks in time. Her stomach flexes under my thumbs.

I watch her face. Her lips parted. Her eyes dark. Her brow drawn slightly as if she's concentrating on something very important.

"You're so..." I start, and can't finish.

"What?"

"You're so damn good at this."