Read Online Blood Price (The Blankenships Book 5) by Evelyn Glass - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Evelyn Glass
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least for now, it was wonderful that he could read her pitch like a natural musician, play her body like a virtuoso. She sighed into him as he stroked her body to a fever pitch, nudged her up onto her tiptoes, and eased himself into her with a delicate sigh.
There was something slow and sensual about his movements within her. His breath on her neck was heated and fast, and her body thrilled at the touch of him, but she had this odd sense that this was enough right now. That what she was craving had more to do with the quiet pull of his flesh against hers, and less to do with the driving need of orgasm. He pressed into her, softly, his fingers running over her body. She could feel him drawing closer and then pulling back, his words a rapid whisper in her ear. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need something different? Something more?”
She reached behind them, got her hand on his hip, and pulled him just a little harder against her. “I’m good,” she said. She couldn’t help the fear that chilled her down. They’d had this conversation before, and he’d seemed to understand, but this was the moment where things fell apart.
“Is it okay if I keep going?” It was such a loaded question. It could be asked in a way that was so—rude, so cruel—but coming from him it was respectful, a quiet request. She had the sense that if she told him to stop, that there would be none of the drama from the other night. Part of her wanted to say no, just to see what happened. But, no. Because it did feel delightful to have her body stretched around him, open and full.
“Yes,” she murmured. He made a quiet and soft sound, and something subtle changed in the rhythm of his body. He wasn’t moving for her benefit now, he was driving into her, pursuing his own ecstasy.
He came within a few moments, and the hot wash of him within her made her gasp. It was such a strange sensation, but it tipped her soft pleasure into something more heated. “Oh, god,” she whispered, as he sagged against her, bracing himself against the wall.
He pressed kisses up and down her neck, his hands brushing over the skin on her arms and torso, somehow completing what they’d begun. He reached past her, surveying a few different bottles on the rack in the corner. “Do you want to smell earthy or flowery?”
“I prefer earthy, I think.”
He nodded, and squirted something into his hands, then working up a lather. He ran his hands over her skin in a motion that was incredibly intimate, and barely sexual. It was as if, for the first time, he was becoming acquainted with her dips and curves in a quiet way, gently caring for her as he had the night before.
This is love , she thought. This sensation. This, right here.
“I don’t think we have the right stuff for your hair,” he said. “You do that no-poo thing, don’t you?”
She cocked her head to the side. No guy in the world had ever cared about how she washed her hair before. “I do, yeah. I’m surprised you know what works and what doesn’t though.”
The look he cast her way was somewhere between wry and irritated. He pointed a finger at his own hair—close cropped, sure, but intensely curly, all the same. “White girls did not invent the idea that silicone can be horrible for curls.”
She was moderately sure that this was the first time she’d ever flushed because of actual embarrassment with him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s not something a lot of people realize.” But his tone was just a little bit tight. It took a few moments for his shoulders to relax. She turned into the spray to wash off the suds he’d left behind. But when she turned back to him, he kissed her gently. “I mean it,” he said. “I don’t blame you for not knowing. And thank you for caring that you didn’t know.”
She kissed him back, because she felt very sure that any words she spoke right then would just
There was something slow and sensual about his movements within her. His breath on her neck was heated and fast, and her body thrilled at the touch of him, but she had this odd sense that this was enough right now. That what she was craving had more to do with the quiet pull of his flesh against hers, and less to do with the driving need of orgasm. He pressed into her, softly, his fingers running over her body. She could feel him drawing closer and then pulling back, his words a rapid whisper in her ear. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need something different? Something more?”
She reached behind them, got her hand on his hip, and pulled him just a little harder against her. “I’m good,” she said. She couldn’t help the fear that chilled her down. They’d had this conversation before, and he’d seemed to understand, but this was the moment where things fell apart.
“Is it okay if I keep going?” It was such a loaded question. It could be asked in a way that was so—rude, so cruel—but coming from him it was respectful, a quiet request. She had the sense that if she told him to stop, that there would be none of the drama from the other night. Part of her wanted to say no, just to see what happened. But, no. Because it did feel delightful to have her body stretched around him, open and full.
“Yes,” she murmured. He made a quiet and soft sound, and something subtle changed in the rhythm of his body. He wasn’t moving for her benefit now, he was driving into her, pursuing his own ecstasy.
He came within a few moments, and the hot wash of him within her made her gasp. It was such a strange sensation, but it tipped her soft pleasure into something more heated. “Oh, god,” she whispered, as he sagged against her, bracing himself against the wall.
He pressed kisses up and down her neck, his hands brushing over the skin on her arms and torso, somehow completing what they’d begun. He reached past her, surveying a few different bottles on the rack in the corner. “Do you want to smell earthy or flowery?”
“I prefer earthy, I think.”
He nodded, and squirted something into his hands, then working up a lather. He ran his hands over her skin in a motion that was incredibly intimate, and barely sexual. It was as if, for the first time, he was becoming acquainted with her dips and curves in a quiet way, gently caring for her as he had the night before.
This is love , she thought. This sensation. This, right here.
“I don’t think we have the right stuff for your hair,” he said. “You do that no-poo thing, don’t you?”
She cocked her head to the side. No guy in the world had ever cared about how she washed her hair before. “I do, yeah. I’m surprised you know what works and what doesn’t though.”
The look he cast her way was somewhere between wry and irritated. He pointed a finger at his own hair—close cropped, sure, but intensely curly, all the same. “White girls did not invent the idea that silicone can be horrible for curls.”
She was moderately sure that this was the first time she’d ever flushed because of actual embarrassment with him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s not something a lot of people realize.” But his tone was just a little bit tight. It took a few moments for his shoulders to relax. She turned into the spray to wash off the suds he’d left behind. But when she turned back to him, he kissed her gently. “I mean it,” he said. “I don’t blame you for not knowing. And thank you for caring that you didn’t know.”
She kissed him back, because she felt very sure that any words she spoke right then would just
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