Read Online Cooking up a Storm by Emma Holly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Holly
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sight of him had distracted her from her original goal. ‘This,’ she said, pushing her small breasts together to form a shallow channel. ‘I want you to come here, where I can see you.’
‘Ah,’ he said, relief in the word this time. He lowered himself. His hip popped slightly and then he sighed as she embraced him with her breasts.
He thrust slowly but firmly, pacing himself. She tilted her head to watch. His cock and hips filled all her vision. He had tan marks on his hipbones. She guessed he liked revealing bathing suits. He’d look gorgeous in a little Speedo — even a thong. The hollows at the side of his muscular buttocks were well worth showing off. Even his pubic hair was beautiful. A wild thick growth at the base of his belly, it gleamed in tight black curls, as if he’d oiled it along with his penis. His balls rolled back and forth over her ribs as he thrust. She squeezed her flesh tighter, surrounding more of him. He gasped and braced his weight on his arms.
His strokes lengthened until he butted the softness under her chin, the little cushion he’d loved with his earlier kiss. He left his fluid on her flesh; he was dripping now, a clear sweet trail of eagerness.
‘Come,’ she said.
He choked out something she couldn’t understand. Her hands occupied in holding herself around him, she lifted one knee and caressed the sweaty upper curve of his buttocks.
‘Come,’ she whispered. ‘I want you to come all over me.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, his accent so thick she almost couldn’t decipher the words.
He pushed harder, faster. The friction burnt the tender skin between her breasts, friction and his own inner heat. She watched him watch his penis. The muscles of his face tightened. His skin went dark like an Arab’s. She knew he was going to come any second, so she shifted her gaze to his cock. Like his face, it was darker and stiffer. The cap was red and shiny, growing even fuller as she watched. He moved faster still. A cry caught in his throat. He held his breath. The eye at the tip seemed to widen, darken, deepen.
Yes, she thought, yes, and he came, an explosive burst of white, hot against her chin, wet running down her neck and over her breasts as he pulled back and shoved again, still pulsing, each jet shooting strong and hard as though his entire supply must burst free in an instant.
Seconds later it was over. His arms shook from holding his weight. She stroked his shoulders and his elbows buckled. He eased himself on to her. He laid his head on her sticky breast. His eyes slid shut as she stroked his hair. He was easy to hold, not all that much heavier than her.
Sleep, she thought, even as she felt him fight it. She wanted him here in the morning, wanted him in her arms. Not likely, she thought, but she could pretend.
* * *
‘I left your present in my pocket,’ he mumbled, trying to shake off his lassitude. He couldn’t stay here. To spend the night would send messages he didn’t mean to send. He had rules about such things. They’d always served him well.
‘Present?’ she said. Her hand continued to stroke his hair.
‘A bonbon I thought we might want to carry. A cream-filled devil’s cake dipped in Swiss-chocolate icing.’ He sensed her mouth watering. ‘Of course, it’s not as spectacular as your caramel-pecan crumble, but it does have the advantage of being small. Some ladies prefer their desserts small, you know, and it does pack a powerful punch.’
‘You like my pecan crumble?’ she said.
He ignored the way the vulnerability in her voice cinched his chest muscles. What harm could there be in pleasing her with the truth? ‘I adored your crumble,’ he said.
Abby sighed happily. ‘That was Dad’s favourite recipe.’
Surprise made him incautious. ‘Your mother didn’t cook?’
Her mouth puckered and twisted at the same time. ‘My mother died in childbirth — having me, actually.’
He could have kicked himself. He did not want to know
‘Ah,’ he said, relief in the word this time. He lowered himself. His hip popped slightly and then he sighed as she embraced him with her breasts.
He thrust slowly but firmly, pacing himself. She tilted her head to watch. His cock and hips filled all her vision. He had tan marks on his hipbones. She guessed he liked revealing bathing suits. He’d look gorgeous in a little Speedo — even a thong. The hollows at the side of his muscular buttocks were well worth showing off. Even his pubic hair was beautiful. A wild thick growth at the base of his belly, it gleamed in tight black curls, as if he’d oiled it along with his penis. His balls rolled back and forth over her ribs as he thrust. She squeezed her flesh tighter, surrounding more of him. He gasped and braced his weight on his arms.
His strokes lengthened until he butted the softness under her chin, the little cushion he’d loved with his earlier kiss. He left his fluid on her flesh; he was dripping now, a clear sweet trail of eagerness.
‘Come,’ she said.
He choked out something she couldn’t understand. Her hands occupied in holding herself around him, she lifted one knee and caressed the sweaty upper curve of his buttocks.
‘Come,’ she whispered. ‘I want you to come all over me.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, his accent so thick she almost couldn’t decipher the words.
He pushed harder, faster. The friction burnt the tender skin between her breasts, friction and his own inner heat. She watched him watch his penis. The muscles of his face tightened. His skin went dark like an Arab’s. She knew he was going to come any second, so she shifted her gaze to his cock. Like his face, it was darker and stiffer. The cap was red and shiny, growing even fuller as she watched. He moved faster still. A cry caught in his throat. He held his breath. The eye at the tip seemed to widen, darken, deepen.
Yes, she thought, yes, and he came, an explosive burst of white, hot against her chin, wet running down her neck and over her breasts as he pulled back and shoved again, still pulsing, each jet shooting strong and hard as though his entire supply must burst free in an instant.
Seconds later it was over. His arms shook from holding his weight. She stroked his shoulders and his elbows buckled. He eased himself on to her. He laid his head on her sticky breast. His eyes slid shut as she stroked his hair. He was easy to hold, not all that much heavier than her.
Sleep, she thought, even as she felt him fight it. She wanted him here in the morning, wanted him in her arms. Not likely, she thought, but she could pretend.
* * *
‘I left your present in my pocket,’ he mumbled, trying to shake off his lassitude. He couldn’t stay here. To spend the night would send messages he didn’t mean to send. He had rules about such things. They’d always served him well.
‘Present?’ she said. Her hand continued to stroke his hair.
‘A bonbon I thought we might want to carry. A cream-filled devil’s cake dipped in Swiss-chocolate icing.’ He sensed her mouth watering. ‘Of course, it’s not as spectacular as your caramel-pecan crumble, but it does have the advantage of being small. Some ladies prefer their desserts small, you know, and it does pack a powerful punch.’
‘You like my pecan crumble?’ she said.
He ignored the way the vulnerability in her voice cinched his chest muscles. What harm could there be in pleasing her with the truth? ‘I adored your crumble,’ he said.
Abby sighed happily. ‘That was Dad’s favourite recipe.’
Surprise made him incautious. ‘Your mother didn’t cook?’
Her mouth puckered and twisted at the same time. ‘My mother died in childbirth — having me, actually.’
He could have kicked himself. He did not want to know
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