Read Online Four Weddings and a Fireman by Jennifer Bernard - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Bernard
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couldnât name the scents he carried, they brought to mind power tools and gearshifts, leather seats and other manly accoutrements. To her, it was a heady smellâÂin fact, it made her lose her head much too easily.
She took another deep breath, letting the scent filter to her mouth, which watered. Her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. With a sudden fierce desire, she wanted to taste Vaderâs skin, investigate all the little permutations of his evocative aroma. Why power tools? If she ran her tongue across the rippling muscle of his biceps, she could figure it out. Why leather? Maybe it had to do with the stubble just appearing on his jaw. If she could bite his chin, lightly, hold it still with her teeth, and dart out her tongue in little exploratory trips, she could find out all sorts of things. If only . . .
Her long, desirous exhale sent a puff of air across the short space between the two of them. Opening her eyes a slit, she saw Vader notice, saw him understand exactly what her sigh meant. When it came to matters of the flesh, Vader was quick as a fox. At least when it came to matters of her flesh.
He looked down at her, holding her gaze in a long, searing, questioning glance. Whatever he saw in her eyes made him tighten his grip on her. He pulled her closer, her body offering no resistance whatsoever, even though the tango wasnât meant to be danced that close. It felt so good to be pressed up against him, the hard ridges and valleys of his torso fitting so snugly against hers. One of her thighs slipped between the shifting columns that were his legs. Heat spangled through her lower belly, stoked by the movement of his thighs, the friction of his growing erection against her stomach.
She sighed and let her body flow against his. Her leotard gave her nipples no protection against the enticing heat of his massive chest. The opposite, in fact. Each shift of the clinging fabric pressed between their two bodies sent an electric charge from the peaks of her breasts to her sex. Every step the two of them took drove her higher, toward that mindless realm where all that mattered was touch and taste and feel.
âVader,â she murmured, with the last remnants of her willpower. âWhat are we doing?â The question had a desperate tone to it. What are we doing? Why do we keep doing it? Why canât we stop?
âWhatever you want to do,â he answered, the devil. He made it sound so simple, but it wasnât, was it? More than anything, she wanted him , to be close to him, to take him into her body and her life. But she couldnât, not completely, and thatâs why she kept hurting him, and she couldnât stand that . . .
But all those mostly logical, semi-Âcoherent thoughts disappeared like vapor in his arms. He moved his hands from the rigid hold of the tango to a more blatantly sexual embrace, in which one hand pulled her hips flush against his lower body and the other cradled her skull. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she rested the back of her head against the solid warmth of his hand. In her humble opinion, Vaderâs hands were a miracle of nature. So large that they spanned her head from ear to ear; so sensitive as they molded to each delicate little bony plate. At Vaderâs touch, every forgotten part of her felt like Sleeping Beauty, awakening only under his attention. With every movement, his hands spoke to her, telling her how beautiful he found her, how much he wanted and revered her.
And, as always, she responded like a spoiled cat, greedily accepting every caress as if it were her rightful due. She was born to be petted by this man. While in his arms, she could never doubt that. Out of his arms . . .
She didnât want to think about the cold world outside the magic circle of his embrace. Reality would intrude soon enough.
âI have a few ideas,â she murmured, her lips curving in anticipation, her heartbeat
She took another deep breath, letting the scent filter to her mouth, which watered. Her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth. With a sudden fierce desire, she wanted to taste Vaderâs skin, investigate all the little permutations of his evocative aroma. Why power tools? If she ran her tongue across the rippling muscle of his biceps, she could figure it out. Why leather? Maybe it had to do with the stubble just appearing on his jaw. If she could bite his chin, lightly, hold it still with her teeth, and dart out her tongue in little exploratory trips, she could find out all sorts of things. If only . . .
Her long, desirous exhale sent a puff of air across the short space between the two of them. Opening her eyes a slit, she saw Vader notice, saw him understand exactly what her sigh meant. When it came to matters of the flesh, Vader was quick as a fox. At least when it came to matters of her flesh.
He looked down at her, holding her gaze in a long, searing, questioning glance. Whatever he saw in her eyes made him tighten his grip on her. He pulled her closer, her body offering no resistance whatsoever, even though the tango wasnât meant to be danced that close. It felt so good to be pressed up against him, the hard ridges and valleys of his torso fitting so snugly against hers. One of her thighs slipped between the shifting columns that were his legs. Heat spangled through her lower belly, stoked by the movement of his thighs, the friction of his growing erection against her stomach.
She sighed and let her body flow against his. Her leotard gave her nipples no protection against the enticing heat of his massive chest. The opposite, in fact. Each shift of the clinging fabric pressed between their two bodies sent an electric charge from the peaks of her breasts to her sex. Every step the two of them took drove her higher, toward that mindless realm where all that mattered was touch and taste and feel.
âVader,â she murmured, with the last remnants of her willpower. âWhat are we doing?â The question had a desperate tone to it. What are we doing? Why do we keep doing it? Why canât we stop?
âWhatever you want to do,â he answered, the devil. He made it sound so simple, but it wasnât, was it? More than anything, she wanted him , to be close to him, to take him into her body and her life. But she couldnât, not completely, and thatâs why she kept hurting him, and she couldnât stand that . . .
But all those mostly logical, semi-Âcoherent thoughts disappeared like vapor in his arms. He moved his hands from the rigid hold of the tango to a more blatantly sexual embrace, in which one hand pulled her hips flush against his lower body and the other cradled her skull. With a sigh of pure pleasure, she rested the back of her head against the solid warmth of his hand. In her humble opinion, Vaderâs hands were a miracle of nature. So large that they spanned her head from ear to ear; so sensitive as they molded to each delicate little bony plate. At Vaderâs touch, every forgotten part of her felt like Sleeping Beauty, awakening only under his attention. With every movement, his hands spoke to her, telling her how beautiful he found her, how much he wanted and revered her.
And, as always, she responded like a spoiled cat, greedily accepting every caress as if it were her rightful due. She was born to be petted by this man. While in his arms, she could never doubt that. Out of his arms . . .
She didnât want to think about the cold world outside the magic circle of his embrace. Reality would intrude soon enough.
âI have a few ideas,â she murmured, her lips curving in anticipation, her heartbeat
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