Bedding the Beast Page 5

  "Which side?" she said at last, triumphantly. "Which side do you want?"

  The side you're on. With you underneath me. And out of that nightgown. "I don't care."

  She set down the book and walked to the bed, standing so close to him, he could see a tiny freckle on her forehead. "Which side?" she asked again.

  Stubborn girl. "Take this side." It would put her closer to the warmth of the stove, farthest from the drafty door.

  She slid into the bed, and he blew out the lamp so she wouldn't see him strip down to his long johns.

  He got into bed and settled on his side, as close to the edge as possible. God help him if she curled up against his back in her sleep.

  "John?"

  He'd never get to sleep if she kept chattering. He grunted in response.

  "Thank you for promise," she said softly.

  Well, what else did she expect? She'd pulled away from him. She'd asked for that promise. And like legions of men before him, he'd been unable to deny a woman. "We'll be married soon enough," he answered.

  And then she wouldn't refuse him. If she did, he'd go mad.

  * * * * *

  He dreamed of her, of course. He dreamed that she turned to him in her sleep, pressed herself against him, and lifted her lips to his. His fingers tangled in her hair. So silky, so fine.

  He kissed her like he'd kiss a whore, licking deep within her mouth, feeling the sharp edges of her teeth, the raspy glide of her own tongue. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her still while his mouth ravaged hers. She made a tiny noise, a noise he couldn't interpret. Protest? Surrender? Desire? Hell, it was his dream. Of course she desired him in his dreams.

  Gasping for air, he broke the kiss. Felt her pulling away, and wrapped an arm around her, crushing her close. He rubbed his face in her tangled hair, uncovering her ear, and nipped the lobe, licked along the edge.

  In the darkness, with no sight, only touch and sound existed. The weight of the blankets, the heat of her body, the smoothness of her skin, the little sighs and drawn breaths she made as he kissed and nipped along her neck.

  He rolled to his side, facing her, and his hand slid down her back, feeling the delicate bones of her spine. He reached lower and cupped her beautiful ass with his greedy hand, dragging her closer. His aching cock pressed against her belly. He shunted his hips, driving himself as though he was deep inside her. Hell, this was a dream. He could fuck her in his dreams.

  Her slim little fingers stroked down his arm, took his hand and dragged it away from her ass. He pulled against her, resisting, but she tugged his hand away, brought it between them ... and then he found his hand on her breast.

  He groaned and stroked her through the thick, soft flannel of her nightgown. Damned flannel. If only she was in that threadbare shift, he could feel her better. Or naked. Yes, naked. He wished the flannel away, but his dream didn't cooperate.

  He tugged at the neckline of her gown, frantic to get to that silky skin, to take that rock-hard nipple in his mouth.

  She grabbed at his hand. "John. John. Basta. Basta. Stop."

  Her voice penetrated the haze of sleep. Good Lord, she was grappling with him. He really was pulling at her nightgown, trying to tear it off of her.

  He yanked his hand back and rolled away. The room was still pitch black, but a solitary bird singing outside told him it must be close to dawn.

  God, he was no better than an animal. Tearing at her clothes, pawing her ... He'd nearly ravished her in his sleep, and here he lay panting to catch his breath like a demented man. He'd apologize. And then he'd finish the night on the floor. The floor wouldn't be nearly as hard as his aching cock.

  Her little hand fumbled over his chest, his shoulder, down his arm, until she found his hand. Her fingers clasped his with more strength than he'd thought she possessed.

  "Is not problem, John," she whispered. Forgiving him before he asked. "You were asleep. We both were asleep."

  Then she lifted his hand, and pressed a kiss to his forefinger. God help him, he wanted to drag her against him, feel those lips against his mouth again.

  Silky skin stroked the back of his hand ‑‑ her cheek, no doubt. She brought their joined hands to her chest, and he felt her fumbling, fumbling with ... was she undoing her buttons? And then his palm was against her naked breast, feeling a hard nipple under his rough fingers.

  God, did she ... did she want this? Hell, she'd put his own hand on her naked flesh. But idiot that he was, he had to question his great good fortune.

  "I won't take you," he muttered. "I swear I won't take you. Just let me ... just let me touch you."

  Chapter Four

  To John, it seemed an age before she answered. An age of feeling nothing but the inviting swell of her breast under his immobile hand, of hearing nothing but his panting breath and the distant bird song outside.

  "Very well," she whispered. And she arched a little, pressing her small breast more firmly into his hand.

  Very well, indeed. He squeezed and fondled, reveling in the texture of her silky skin. Then he leaned even closer, until his mouth brushed her silky hair. He kissed his way over her cheekbone, down her face, and found her mouth, kissing her softly, restraining himself.

  He could be gentle. And for all her apparent willingness, one wrong move could send her running, could frighten her into pulling away.

  He'd sooner die. He knew enough to go slowly. How long before he could thrust his tongue into her mouth? Before he could suck at her breasts? Before he could press his cock against her thigh? He didn't want to frighten her by moving too quickly.

  And this was heaven in itself, just kissing her, kissing her over and over again, while his hand learned the shape, the texture, of her breasts. His fingers strummed a taut, urgent nipple.

  Her tongue licked at his lips, teasing him, then flitted into his own mouth with rapid little thrusts. She had some experience with kissing, it would seem. Of course she did. God only knew how many men had kissed her. Or fondled this firm little breast. How many other hands had she lifted to her bare bosom?

  He pulled his mouth away from her eager lips. "Are you a virgin?"

  Damn. He hadn't meant to ask.

  She gasped. "Of course I'm a virgin. How dare you?" she said, in rapid Italian. "What kind of woman do you think I am? Just because I allow the man I'm going to marry to ‑‑"

  He put his hand over her mouth to stop her. "I meant no disrespect."

  Lord, what a stupid thing to say. Nothing was more disrespectful than questioning the virginity of an unmarried girl. How could he salvage this?

  He took his hand from her mouth and cupped her breast again. "You seem to enjoy this."

  "Should I not?" She still sounded angry. Angry and challenging.

  "Oh, I'm very glad that you do," he said truthfully. "But I was surprised."

  He grazed her nipple with his thumb. Still taut, still firm. Still lusciously suckable.

  She made no protest. He'd assume he was forgiven. And his lips had better uses than talking.

  He bent his head, searching. His mouth touched her collarbone, slid lower, and she seemed to hold her breath, waiting. He licked over the curve of her breast, and finally, finally, his tongue laved her nipple.

  She gasped and held his head tight, her fingers tugging at his hair. He suckled on her deeply, trying to take the whole of her breast into his mouth.

  She squirmed impatiently, lifting her hips against him, setting fire to his blood. Little cries came from her throat, shameless, urgent noises. He knew what she needed, and soon he'd give it to her. But first he'd torment her just a little bit more.

  He moved to her other little breast and licked ... just licked ... finding the nipple already peaked, loving how she lifted against him, seeking more, loving how she made a frustrated little sound. She wanted him. She truly wanted him. Praise the saints for the darkness. In the light, she'd look at him in horror. In the dark, there was only the touch of his hands, his mouth.

&nbs
p; He nipped the slope of her breast, and she squeaked in surprise. He smiled and gave in, took her in his mouth fully, sucking until he felt the hard nub of her nipple against the roof of his mouth. She whimpered again.

  Her hands left his hair and skimmed his neck, sliding under his collar. Then he felt her unbuttoning the top of his long johns, and finally her hands brushed over his chest. Her fingers combed through his chest hair. "You're warm," she said. "And ... so much hair."

  Even in bed, she would chatter. He dragged his mouth from her tender breasts and kissed her, filling her with his tongue, and she kissed him back, thrusting her own tongue against his. The kiss of a woman who wanted.

  As he wanted.

  He stroked over her back again, found the slope of her behind, and let his hand fondle her ass. She made no protest, not even when he wandered over her hip, when he slipped the hem of her nightgown up to her thighs ... not even when he felt the wiry curls of her pussy. She was well-furred, very well-furred. If only he could see the color of this wild bush. Imagination filled in the gaps left by the darkness. Perhaps a light chestnut brown, like her eyebrows. Yes.

  But when he pressed his fingers down, down between her legs, she stiffened.

  He dragged his mouth from her breasts and nuzzled against her neck. "Let me touch you," he pleaded. "I won't take you. I swear it."

  Her thighs trembled, he felt that against his hand, but then they relaxed a bit. Enough that he could dip just a little lower, low enough to rub light circles over her hidden bud. Her clit. He knew the English word. But he wouldn't go deeper, wouldn't touch it directly, not yet, not until ‑‑

  She moaned. Yes, she moaned. So he spread his fingers apart, opening her, delving deeper, until his fingertips were right on top of her tiny bud, stroking it in slow, easy circles. Her hips lifted a little, and she moved, showing him the rhythm she liked, the pressure she needed.

  Even a rough, calloused hand like his could feel the silky skin of her cunt, could feel the sensitive bud of her clit, could feel the wet warmth oozing from her flesh. Thank God he knew how to pleasure her.

  Thank God she was willing to let him. She even spread her legs a little, giving him more access to her pussy. Trusting him.

  He slipped low with just one finger, found her virgin opening, and pressed inside, a little bit inside, only up to his first knuckle ‑‑ ah, she was wet, flowing. He spread the slippery fluid over her bud.

  "I'm wet," she gasped, surprised. "Why am I so wet?"

  Was there ever a time this woman was silent? All he could think of was the slick wet heat of her cunt, and how tight she'd feel around his poor cock, and she asked questions. He had to clear his throat to speak. "Your body is preparing to join with mine." Preparing with a vengeance.

  She stiffened. "You promised ‑‑"

  "Hush. Your body may be prepared, but I know you aren't." He kept stroking her in slow, easy circles.

  Her thighs relaxed then. "Thank you."

  "When you're ready ‑‑" He stopped. No, he wouldn't give her a chance to delay him even more. "On Sunday ... on Valentine's Day, when I take you fully, this wetness will ease the joining."

  Impossible to resist, with temptation so close. He slid his finger deep inside her passage, and nearly lost control when she squeezed down on him.

  He clenched his teeth. This was her night for pleasure, and he'd pleasure her properly. Patience now would reward him later. By Sunday, she'd be eager for him to fuck her. So he withdrew and kept circling, just a little harder, just a little faster.

  Her breath came in quick gasps now, her hips moving in tandem with his fingers. He nuzzled against her chest, found a breast, and suckled. She moaned and writhed under him, pressing her clit harder against his fingers.

  And suddenly her hips froze, her breath caught, but he kept rubbing, stroking, rubbing, stroking. She gave a sharp little cry, then her body convulsed under his hand. Even his lips, against her breast, felt her shake with her release.

  He'd have given anything, anything, to see her face in that moment. But if he'd been able to see her face, she'd have been able to see his. And then she'd never have allowed him to touch her sweet pussy like this.

  When she stilled, he stopped rubbing her and cupped her mound in his hand. She turned her face into his chest, nuzzling against him. He felt her sigh, felt her fingers curl into a little fist against his chest.

  He took his hand from her pussy and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. In the dark, she couldn't see what he did. With his forearm behind her head, she'd think he was simply holding her. He licked his fingers, tasting her musky juice. Wonderful, musky juice.

  Someday he'd tongue her pussy. She was a passionate little thing. She'd like it.

  He'd love it.

  God, his cock was achingly hard. With his other hand, he furtively stroked himself through his clothes. When she fell asleep, he'd see to his own ease.

  She stirred a little against his chest. "What ‑‑ what is the word for what you do to me?"

  She couldn't mean the fondling of her sweet parts. She must mean the climax. "You came."

  "What?"

  "You came."

  "Like ... I came on the boat? I came from Italy?"

  "Yes. The same words can mean different things."

  "I understand." He felt her words, her breath, against his chest. "Can you ... can I touch you and ... can you come?"

  Praise be to whatever saint had blessed him tonight. He took her slender hand from his chest and pressed it against his cock, showed her how to rub him through his underclothes. And he lifted his hips against her untutored movements, just as she'd lifted hers against his hand moments ago.

  She kissed his neck, then his chin. Her hair caught on his whiskers as she moved higher and kissed his mouth. He could barely breathe from the wonder of her stroking hand, but he kissed her deeply, breaking away only when she took her hand off his cock.

  He groaned. But then he felt her pulling at his clothes, tugging at buttons, and suddenly her hand was against his hot, hard skin. He reached down and wrapped her slender hand around his cock, teaching her how hard to grasp, how quickly to pump.

  His free arm pulled her closer, and his hand stroked over her ass. If only he was inside her, deep inside her, pumping away as he cupped this soft round ass in his hands ...

  He groaned and forced her hand tighter, faster ... and his hips left the bed as he came, gushing hot seed onto his belly.

  After he caught his breath, he took her hand away and kissed her fingers. He should thank her, tell her how much she'd pleased him, but ... he couldn't bring himself to voice the words. She was the talkative one. He just wanted to pull her skinny body tight against him and relish the bliss of release. And sleep for another hour or two.

  But first he had to wipe off his seed. Somehow her arms and legs were holding onto him as tightly as he was holding her. He untangled himself and left the bed, carefully feeling his way to the sink. He wiped his stomach dry with a cloth rag, tossed it to the floor, then went back to the bed and slid under the covers.

  "What do you do?" she asked.

  Of course she'd want to know. She was such a curious girl. "I'm wiping away my seed."

  "Seed? That's the English word?"

  He pulled her against him. "Yes."

  "Seed. Like a plant."

  "Yes."

  She rearranged herself, scooting up the bed, no doubt so her head could rest on her pillow. "I understand. It's called seed because a man's seed grows a baby."

  He felt down along her stomach and lightly stroked her wiry bush. "Only if it is planted where it can take root."

  "Is it not a sin, to spill your seed where it can't take root?"

  He'd never get back to sleep, with all these questions. "Yes. But it would be a greater sin to take you against your will."

  She yawned. "Is it proper, that I ask the English words for ... for mating things?"

  "Yes. But don't write these words on your chalkboard," he teased. "
They are only proper between husband and wife."

  "Or between ... lovers." She used the Italian word.

  Yet they weren't really lovers. Not until Valentine's Day. He could think of no response.

  "What is the English word for my ... privates?" she asked, again substituting the Italian.

  He listed all the words in his head, words too crude or ridiculous to share with a woman. "Your pussy," he said at last.

  She started a little. "Like a cat?"

  He yawned. "Yes."

  "Strange. I wonder why ... that word?"

  He smiled at her hesitation to say the word. A completely innocent word, except now she knew its other meaning. He'd never have dared to reply in the daylight. In the darkness, he'd dare anything. "Perhaps because both kinds of pussy are so nice to pet."

  She gasped, then giggled. "You're a wicked man."

  She had no idea. Not yet.

  "And will you tell me the word for your ... for your privates?"

  He knew only one word in English. "My cock. Like a rooster," he answered, before she could ask. "I have no idea why."

  "A rooster is also called a cock?"

  "Yes."

  He felt her shake her head. "Crazy language."

  All languages were. "In Italian, we say al fresco, and it could mean either outside or in prison. Opposite meanings."

  "That's true." She curled up next to him with a yawn.

  Francesca had never relaxed against him like this. By the cross, he'd not make the same mistakes with Mariana. He'd take her gently, gently. He'd make her wet with her own fluid, with moisture from his mouth ... he'd open her with his fingers, carefully stretching her virgin flesh ... and when his cock breached her, she would be ready. She'd feel no pain from fucking him.

  And if he kept thinking like this, he'd be hard again in a matter of moments. He kissed the top of her head. "It's almost dawn. Get some sleep."

  She nodded and yawned again. "It did feel very nice when you ... pet me."

  Nice? He'd have to teach her more English. Words like wonderful. Incredible. Blissful.

  "Domani, si vuoi ‑‑" He stopped, and switched to English. "Tomorrow night, if you wish, I will pet your pussy again."