Read Online Temptation in Shadows by Gena Showalter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gena Showalter
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talkative Gabby a lot.” His fingers curled around the hem of her shirt and lifted. Willingly she raised her arms, and the material swept over her head.
He sucked in a breath, his gaze glued to her tattoos.
She fisted her hands at her sides to keep from covering them. Different-colored flowers were scattered over her stomach and back, leafy vines connecting them. Some were prettier than others, and some were oddly misshapen.
“I used to let new artists practice on me,” she explained. “For money.” It had been better than selling her body, one tattoo keeping her fed for a week.
“I like them,” he said, voice thick.
A sigh of relief escaped her—which was weird since his opinion on her body didn’t matter to her
at all
—and she reached up, fingertips tracing his own tattoos. She didn’t have to ask. He simply told.
“My father marked me when I was fourteen. The symbols are meant to anchor me. I can control the shadows, right, drawing them in and enveloping my body with their darkness, but sometimes everything inside me wants to sink into them, to become one with them. These prevent me from doing so. Prevent the shadows from fully accepting me as one of their own.”
“Why on your face, though?”
“So that it’s always visible, the . . . magic of itunfettered. Now, you’re still wearing too many clothes.” His fingers lowered to her pants and worked the button.
Unziiip.
He shoved the denim to the floor. “Step out of them.”
Gabby obeyed, left now in her bra and panties. Plain and serviceable, but black. Steam from the shower wafted around her, leaving a sheen of dew on her skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” Sean said, then dropped to his knees. He kissed her navel, tongue darting out, hot and wet, and her muscles quivered. That tongue followed one of the vines, swirled around each of the flowers, then traced their petals.
Her hands tangled in his hair as her head fell back, tresses brushing the sensitive arch of her lower back. “You have my permission to keep doing that.”
“I would have killed Rowan if he’d touched these,” he said between licks, gripping her hips. “He was supposed to be the one to win you, you know, but I couldn’t let him do it. I had to have you myself. And do you know how many times I’ve jerked off these past few weeks, thinking about tasting you like this? Countless.” He pressed his nose against her, right between her legs, and breathed deeply. “And fuck, you even smell like lemons and sugar here.”
If he let go of her, she would fall. Not just on her ass, but into a void, flailing for an anchor. Never had she felt so desired. So necessary. It was as if he needed her for his survival. That he had to have her or he would die. An illusion, definitely, but as many times as she’d been rejected throughout her life, considered nothing but a piece of garbage, forgettable, worthless, the sensation empowered her. Soothed her.
“Go on,” she rasped. “Tell me more.”
“I can’t stop touching you,” he said thickly. He continued his exploration of her tattoos. His mouth was so hot it burned, his teeth scraping and stinging lightly. When he finished with the multihued designs—God, had anyone ever paid them so much attention?—he traced the waist of her panties. Her knees weakened, and she moaned. “You know the men who prefer not to taste a woman?”
“Yes.” The word emerged breathless, a wisp of smoke.
“I’m not one of them.” He moved her panties aside, then his masterful tongue was delving over her clit.
Another moan wisped from her, this one broken and hoarse. Her nails sank into his scalp. Soon he was devouring her, not just licking, growling low in his throat, fingers joining in the play, stretching her, filling her up. Pleasure was shooting through her, a drug in her veins, burning, boiling, blistering.
“Sean,” she said on a groan. She writhed against him, pumping back and forth. The more she moved, the louder she became, and
He sucked in a breath, his gaze glued to her tattoos.
She fisted her hands at her sides to keep from covering them. Different-colored flowers were scattered over her stomach and back, leafy vines connecting them. Some were prettier than others, and some were oddly misshapen.
“I used to let new artists practice on me,” she explained. “For money.” It had been better than selling her body, one tattoo keeping her fed for a week.
“I like them,” he said, voice thick.
A sigh of relief escaped her—which was weird since his opinion on her body didn’t matter to her
at all
—and she reached up, fingertips tracing his own tattoos. She didn’t have to ask. He simply told.
“My father marked me when I was fourteen. The symbols are meant to anchor me. I can control the shadows, right, drawing them in and enveloping my body with their darkness, but sometimes everything inside me wants to sink into them, to become one with them. These prevent me from doing so. Prevent the shadows from fully accepting me as one of their own.”
“Why on your face, though?”
“So that it’s always visible, the . . . magic of itunfettered. Now, you’re still wearing too many clothes.” His fingers lowered to her pants and worked the button.
Unziiip.
He shoved the denim to the floor. “Step out of them.”
Gabby obeyed, left now in her bra and panties. Plain and serviceable, but black. Steam from the shower wafted around her, leaving a sheen of dew on her skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” Sean said, then dropped to his knees. He kissed her navel, tongue darting out, hot and wet, and her muscles quivered. That tongue followed one of the vines, swirled around each of the flowers, then traced their petals.
Her hands tangled in his hair as her head fell back, tresses brushing the sensitive arch of her lower back. “You have my permission to keep doing that.”
“I would have killed Rowan if he’d touched these,” he said between licks, gripping her hips. “He was supposed to be the one to win you, you know, but I couldn’t let him do it. I had to have you myself. And do you know how many times I’ve jerked off these past few weeks, thinking about tasting you like this? Countless.” He pressed his nose against her, right between her legs, and breathed deeply. “And fuck, you even smell like lemons and sugar here.”
If he let go of her, she would fall. Not just on her ass, but into a void, flailing for an anchor. Never had she felt so desired. So necessary. It was as if he needed her for his survival. That he had to have her or he would die. An illusion, definitely, but as many times as she’d been rejected throughout her life, considered nothing but a piece of garbage, forgettable, worthless, the sensation empowered her. Soothed her.
“Go on,” she rasped. “Tell me more.”
“I can’t stop touching you,” he said thickly. He continued his exploration of her tattoos. His mouth was so hot it burned, his teeth scraping and stinging lightly. When he finished with the multihued designs—God, had anyone ever paid them so much attention?—he traced the waist of her panties. Her knees weakened, and she moaned. “You know the men who prefer not to taste a woman?”
“Yes.” The word emerged breathless, a wisp of smoke.
“I’m not one of them.” He moved her panties aside, then his masterful tongue was delving over her clit.
Another moan wisped from her, this one broken and hoarse. Her nails sank into his scalp. Soon he was devouring her, not just licking, growling low in his throat, fingers joining in the play, stretching her, filling her up. Pleasure was shooting through her, a drug in her veins, burning, boiling, blistering.
“Sean,” she said on a groan. She writhed against him, pumping back and forth. The more she moved, the louder she became, and
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