through his fingers.
Don’t get squishy about dreams. Dreams will betray you, said a scolding inner voice.
Don’t ruin this for me, she told it. A little pleasure, for God’s sake. A little bit of pleasure, once in a blue moon.
She knew the choreography of kisses, just as she knew every other sexual technique, but she’d never felt the raw, driving desire behind a kiss before. The whole point of a kiss. As if there was a precious elixir to be had from the mouth of the other, something they would both die without and only pleading passion could bring it forth.
She squeezed and writhed, breathless in the dark. He was so good. Perfect. The only thing she would have gladly changed about this moment was that she wanted the thrusting prong of his fingers to be that thick, meaty cock. She wanted to twine her naked legs around him and take him to the hilt, to feel his strength jarring into her with that wild, pounding rhythm that took her breath. She wanted all the room and softness of a big bed to do justice to his outrageous bounty.
No time to be dissatisfied, though. She was coming apart, tightening around him with every tiny muscle inside herself. Sensations, emotions, welling up together.
They overflowed, swirling, rushing. Carrying her gently away.
He lifted his head slowly afterward. There was no need to say anything. The tension in his hand still clamped over her mound, the bulge in his jeans, his dark, burning eyes said it all.
He fell heavily back into his chair as she got his jeans open. There was a glow of pink on the bottom of the window shade, signifying that dawn was at hand—which meant that a flight attendant could pull aside the curtain and offer them coffee and pastry at any moment.
She did not care. She wrenched down the stretchy black fabric of his briefs and took his thick, throbbing shaft into her hand with a sigh. Beautiful. Stone hard and broad and swollen, longer than any cock had practical reason to be, thick enough to be a bit of a problem. Overkill.
She squeezed her thighs around the juicy glow of lingering pleasure as she licked up glistening drops of pre-come. He gasped for air.
She sucked him into her mouth, relishing the salty taste, the hardness of his flesh, the silky skin, the deep throb of his heartbeat pulsing against her tongue.
Last night, she’d wanted to assault him with her skill. Now, she just wanted to be so close his pleasure would be her own, every stroke, every moan. She craved that closeness. She’d been alone so long.
She needed both hands to perform a proper blow job on this man. It was hard just to get his cockhead into her mouth, let alone the rest of it, but with the skillful addition of bold, twisting handwork and a generous amount of slippery spit, that was no problem at all.
It was perfect, feeling his response, the trembling dig of his fingers into her scalp, the hot, rich male smell of him, the tension in his muscular frame as he bent over her as he built up to it—and a volcanic explosion in her mouth. He spurted an outrageous amount of come into her mouth in complete and utter silence. Such self-control.
She kept him nestled inside the warm well of her mouth until the rhythmic spurts finally slowed down and eased off. She pulled her head away and admired the gleaming length of him, milking the last few creamy drops of come and licking them up, with tender, teasing flicks of her tongue. The sound he made was almost a whimper. His hands tightened in her hair. They were both damp with sweat.
She sat up, wiggling back down into her own seat and buttoning her jeans. She pulled her sweater down and her blanket back up. Val tucked his cock into his pants, adjusted his clothes, and fished a bottle of mineral water out of the seat pocket. He presented it to her.
Nice touch. The least he could do. She drank deeply and pulled her blanket back up to her chin. As if it were any kind of protection from his seductive power.
“Proud of yourself?” She forced some sharpness into her tone.
He shook his head. “Humbled,” he said softly. “And destroyed.”
She was getting embarrassed now, which always made her irritable. “I need a bath in the worst way,” she whispered. “And we have hours of travel time to go. Nor do I have clean clothes to spare.”
“Sorry, Tamar.” The sympathy on his face was fake. “When we get to Italy, we will buy you more clothing. And the hotel room I have booked in San Vito has a magnificent bathroom. A deep tub, with hydromassage. A beautiful marble shower, for two.”
“Why are you calling me that?” she demanded. “Nobody calls me that. It’s Tam, if you please.”
“I like it that nobody calls you that,” he said quietly. “And I like it that it is your real name.”
“Real.” She snorted. “What’s real?”
He reached out, slowly drew his fingertip over her upper lip. Then the tender inner part of it. Her mouth trembled in response. His finger smelled of her.
“This was real,” he said softly. “No comfort zone. I loved it.”
She blushed idiotically. “Hmph. Whatever. I want that shower. Your gooey gigolo sweet talk won’t help me with that. The bathroom in San Vito is still five thousand kilometers away. And you still trust me with your credit card?”
“Fuck, no,” he said, with feeling. “This time, I choose what you buy.”
She startled herself by giggling. He took advantage of the unshielded moment to grab her hand.
She stiffened. Her first instinct was to yank it back, as if she’d been burned. She stopped herself, by force of will, her nerves on edge.
Their hands were both a bit sticky, but it wasn’t as if either one of them had cause to complain. She had never actually held a man’s hand in her life. Other parts of a man, yes. But not hands.
It was uncomfortably, weirdly intimate. Almost, well…nice. In a way that was dangerously different from sex.
But then again, what did it matter if she indulged in a silly lovey-dovey fantasy? Even if it blew up in her face. Who would it hurt?
You, she told herself. It’ll hurt you. You’re letting the man literally fuck your brains out, and the end result will not be pretty.
She acknowledged that brutal truth, she accepted it, she swallowed it down…but she did not let go of his hand.
Chapter
16
If Val had not been so worried about Imre, so conscious of time, he would have actually been having fun with Tamar. He enjoyed her caustic wit, her sharp honesty. She stimulated him on every level.
They checked into the beautiful, baroque-era hotel in San Vito, and he hurried her up the grand staircase and down the high-ceilinged corridor to their room with unconcealed impatience. He had paid a ridiculous sum to reserve this particular room. It had a loggia, with three arches on the terrace, a spectacular view of the town rising steeply out of the azure sea and clinging to the mountain slopes, and of La Roccia, the huge rock formation that cut the town into two parts.
Not that he gave her time to look at it. He slammed the
