Savor Me Slowly (Alien Huntress #3)(22)
Author: Gena Showalter

“Good?” she asked, breathless.

“Exquisite.”

A shiver moved along her spine. He followed the delicious reaction, fingers tracing every ridge. I’m caressing those tattoos. The very thought heated him. The colorful array of flowers painted into her skin: lilies, roses, orchids, and lush emerald leaves were raised in places, he noticed. Scars? Probably. He brushed them again, offering comfort.

She shivered again.

And that’s when he realized that she shivered when aroused. He replayed the last hour in his mind and countrd the number of times she’d shivered. Three.

Thank God.

He would rather have been stabbed than rejected by her.

Right now she was his and everything about her was surprising him.

She had a robotic arm, yet that beautiful artwork decorated her back, her spine acting as a trellis to all kinds of vibrant foliage. She could kill a man without blinking, yet looked like a nervous teenager at the mention of a kiss.

That nervousness surprised him most of all and filled him with determination to move slowly, gently, even though his body demanded he throw her down, pin her, take her as hard and fast as possible, branding himself into every inch of her. Staking a claim.

He tilted his head for deeper contact and her tongue moved tentatively against his.

He groaned. Slow and easy. Don’t scare her, he reminded himself. The hesitance could be an act on her part, but he didn’t care.

One of his hands eased from her lower back and up her side, until his palm met the swell of her breast. Small, as he’d once imagined, but perfect. Firm yet soft. His hips arched forward of their own accord, seeking the very core of her as he turned his wrist and cupped that delectable mound.

“Jaxon,” she panted as she pulled away.

He almost grabbed her neck and jerked her back. He needed more of her lips, more of her taste. Would die without them. Slow and easy, remember? His hand returned to her waist. “Too much too fast?”

Rather than answer, she licked her lips. When he saw the pink tip of her tongue—I’ve touched it, I’ve tasted it—his erection swelled to the point of pain.

“Maybe,” she finally said, “Will you just, I don’t know. Will you pretend like this is my first kiss?” Her gaze fell to his chest. “Will you tell me what you’re going to do before you do it?”

He froze, saw vulnerability claim her for a split second, and frowned as a thought arose. “Are you a virgin, Mishka?” Stranger things were possible, he supposed.

She shook her head, long hair tickling his thighs. “I just, I don’t know,” she said again. Twin red circles tinged her cheeks, and she started to pull away completely, severing all contact. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I shouldn’t have done this. I—”

“Be still. Please.” He tightened his grip. “I’ll pretend anything you want,” he told her softly. And he would. Whatever her reasoning, he would do it.

A game—fine. Liked to role-play—even better. Except, as he sat there staring up at her tormented features, neither explanation settled well with him. With her uncertainty, her reluctance to touch, and now a need to pretend, he began to suspect something dark and sinister had happened to her.

“Mishka, were you raped?”

She stiffened. Didn’t speak.

He shouldn’t have asked, but he was now pretty certain she had been. Fury welled inside him. Calm, stay calm. He could rage later, privately. “Brace your knees on the edge of the bed, baby, one on each side of me. But only if you want to,” he added. Please want to. He’d never begged a woman for sex, but he just might do it now.

She nibbled on her bottom lip, leaving a sheen of wet and red, as if she’d sucked on a syn-fruit and juice had dribbled. God, he wanted to be the one to nibble. Wanted to glut himself on her.

Her gaze darted from him to the mattress, from the mattress to him. For a moment, he thought she meant to leave him. Then she did as he’d asked and the needy core of her settled over his throbbing erection.

Both of them hissed in pleasure-pain.

As if she couldn’t stop herself, she rubbed her br**sts against his chest. He had to see them again, those small, pink-tipped beauties. “I’m going to remove your bra. Stop me if I do anything you don’t like. Okay?”

“Okay.” Slowly, tentatively, she straightened her spine. He lifted his arms, just as unhurried. Before he reached the material, she captured his hand and twined their fingers. Buying time?

The contrast of their skin, deep tan against cream, proved to be a lovely sight. Giving her the time she needed, he spent a long while simply basking before drawing her wrist to his mouth and placing a soft kiss. Both actions surprised him, for they spoke of affection, something he had no business feeling.

“Ready now?” he asked.

She nodded, then blinked in surprise at her own admission. Some of the hesitation vanished from her, replaced by thrums of eagerness and curiosity, shock and pleasure. She shivered.

He’d watched her fasten the bra from behind, so he reached around her. Her skin broke out in sensitive little bumps everywhere he touched. When the clasp was undone, he paused. “Ready?” he asked again. Rushing and frightening her was suddenly more abhorrent to him than leaving her and spending the next few hours in a state of pained unsatisfaction.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He blazed a slow path to the upper straps, hooked them on his fingers, and slid them off. The bra floated down and pooled between their bodies, leaving her br**sts bare. Christ. In that moment, he converted to a new religion: the worship of Mishka Le’Ace.

Her ni**les were pink and hard as he remembered, little berries he planned to sample over and over again before the night was over.

“Would you like it if I removed my shirt?” he asked her.

Blessedly, she gave another nod.

Though he would much rather knead her br**sts, suck them, he gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted. He tossed the material to the floor before flattening his hands on her back and urging her forward. She did not resist. When her soft br**sts met the hardness of his muscles, he closed his eyes and groaned.

He resisted the urge to roll her onto her back, to claim and possess. “I’m going to lick your ni**les.”

“Yes.”

His tongue flicked over one hard bud, then the other. Delicious. Perfect. He could have stayed there forever, worshipping, but she soon stopped writhing, even stiffened.

Okay, no br**sts. Not yet. “I’m going to kiss your mouth again.” She’d nearly erupted last time he’d kissed her. “When I do, I might touch between your legs.” Maybe she’d like that as much as the kiss.