“Did you feel how wet I was?” she asked him. “I need to come so badly. Won’t you touch me?”
He didn’t move.
It was time for plan B. Her fingers slid to the slick heat of her p**sy. “If you won’t finish me, I guess I’ll have to do it myself, won’t I?”
She heard his sucked-in breath. His gaze riveted on her, lustful and full of need all at once. Encouraged, she slid one fingertip in lazy circles around her clit, shivering when it sent a bolt of pleasure through her body. He watched her as if fascinated, and his hand rubbed against the hard length straining at the front of his pants.
“Touch yourself for me,” she breathed, dipping a finger into the wet well of her sex and then spreading the moisture around her clit, wetting it. Faster and faster, she glided her finger in circles around it, biting her lip as she spiraled closer to her cli**x.
She should have felt awkward lying on a couch with her pants tangled below her knees, legs spread wide as she stroked herself to orgasm. But the gaze of the man sitting across from her on the couch had her riveted. She wanted to do this for him. To show him how much pleasure he’d given her.
“Touch yourself, Hunter. I’m so close.” She slid her other hand between her legs, spreading the lips of her p**sy to show him just how wet she was.
She watched with pleasure as he unzipped his pants, shoving them down and then quickly followed them with his underwear, releasing his cock. The head was flushed a deep red with need, slick with pr**um. He stroked it once, his motions jerky.
She paused in her self-pleasure, fascinated by his hand working his shaft. God, he was beautiful.
“Don’t stop,” Hunter commanded, his voice ragged. “Need . . . to see it.”
“I won’t,” she promised, and began to touch herself again. She watched him stroke and jerk at his c*ck even as she continued to play with her clit. “I wish it was your mouth on me,” she told him. “Your c*ck deep inside me.” And she dipped a finger into her sex.
He groaned again, his face contorting. Hot cum jetted out of him, spraying across her belly. The look on his face was so full of exquisite pleasure that she felt her own body pulse with pleasure. Working her fingers faster over her clit, she came a moment later, hard and messy, her eyes tightly shut.
When she opened them a short time later, the room was empty. Hunter had retreated again.
Well, that wasn’t so surprising. Gretchen smiled to herself and touched a finger to the cum he’d left on her skin. She had a feeling that Hunter wouldn’t be avoiding her much anymore.
Things were going rather well, she thought.
Chapter 7
Hunter lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his body stiff with need.
Over and over, he played that scene in the library through in his mind. Gretchen’s innocent question as she asked him to help her with a project. Her breast pressing against his arm, and the way his c*ck immediately responded. Her soft red hair moving over her shoulders as she tilted her head, watching him.
The amazement he’d felt when she’d began to read the lewd letters out loud, asking him to act them out.
He’d put his hand on her breast and nearly shattered, the pleasure had been so intense. She hadn’t been repulsed by his touch, either. Instead, she’d encouraged it, moving her h*ps in little motions under him until he’d dared enough to strip her pants down her thighs and taste her.
He’d been lost in that moment. He was totally and completely hers.
Except . . . he’d felt too much too soon. He knew his control wasn’t what it should be, and he’d tensed, suddenly afraid of showing his inexperience. She’d pouted a little, but had ended up surprising him all over again, touching herself and inviting him to touch himself in response.
When he’d set this project in motion, he’d hoped to merely spend time with her. Be around her and let his glimpses of her fuel his longings. He’d never hoped for as much as he’d gotten this afternoon.
She wasn’t repulsed by his scars. She hadn’t flinched away from his scarred hand and missing finger. He touched his cheek. She hadn’t backed away when he reached for her. If anything, she’d seemed . . . eager for his touch. As if it had been what she’d been waiting for all along.
And he’d been unable to give her what she wanted. She’d wanted to be f**ked but he’d pulled off her like a green schoolboy and jerked his c*ck instead. Shame mixed with hunger and he sat up in bed, frustrated.
His dick was already hard again. Just the merest thought of Gretchen and he went wild with need.
He wanted to see her again. That afternoon, he’d left her on the couch, sated. Was she hurt by his abandonment? Angry? As frustrated as he was? It was suddenly important to him that he talk to her and explain himself. The thought of telling her about his inexperience made his throat go dry, but she deserved to know. It wasn’t her who was the problem; it was him. And he didn’t want her to go another moment thinking that there was something wrong with her.
Hunter jumped out of bed and tossed on a robe, loosely tying it as he headed down the dark hallways of Buchanan Manor. She’d think he was crazy. Completely crazy. But he needed to talk to her.
A short time later, he stood in front of her room, hesitating. Her door was shut, no light shining underneath. She was asleep. Should he stay? Go? Gathering his courage, he knocked softly, and when there was no response, knocked louder.
Gretchen arrived at the door a moment later, rubbing her eyes sleepily. She was dressed in an oversized T-shirt and panties. Her long, curvy legs were bare. “Mmm, Hunter? What’s going on?”
She was mouthwatering. Soft, sleepy, and gorgeous. The T-shirt slipped off one shoulder, baring her skin, and he couldn’t wait any longer.
Hunter moved forward, grasped her by the shoulders, and kissed her.
Gretchen stiffened against him and that horrible, horrible fear crashed through him—fear that she wasn’t attracted to him, fear that she’d be repulsed by his touch, fear that she’d turn him away. But then she pushed into his arms with enthusiasm, sliding her hands around the back of his neck and kissing him.
It was his first kiss. He realized after she softened in his arms that he had no idea what to do. He’d never kissed anyone before. What if he f**ked this up? What if—
Gretchen’s tongue slicked out and licked the tight seam of his mouth.
Ah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was the most amazing thing he’d ever felt. The tip of her tongue might as well have been licking his cock, for it shot a jolt straight there. Hunter groaned, unable to help himself.
She touched the seam of his mouth again with her tongue, and he parted his lips, fascinated by the aggressive lead she’d taken. Immediately, Gretchen’s tongue swept into his mouth, stroking against his in a coaxing move that made him harden with need.
“Gretchen,” he breathed against her lips. His c*ck ached so badly for her that he couldn’t think straight, was losing track of what he’d arrived here to do. “I—we need to talk.”
Her warm, delicious figure suddenly pulled away. “Talk? That sounds bad.” She tilted her head up at him and gave him a teasing look. “Are you coming here to break up with me?”
“No.” He wanted to crawl between her legs and settle there again. He wanted to touch her all over. Caress her. Kiss her more. Kiss her for hours. “I just . . . there are things that need to be said between us.”
“That sounds very serious. Why don’t you come to bed and tell me? It’s cold out here.” She gave a small shiver, and he noticed her n**ples were hard, poking against the thin fabric of her sleep shirt.
The sight made him nearly spend right there. Hunter scrubbed a hand down his face as Gretchen took his hand and led him to the bed. She crawled under the covers and then held them open for him, inviting him in.
The most beautiful, desirable woman he’d ever seen was inviting him to her bed. Damn, he was a lucky son of a bitch.
Hunter hesitated but then slid into bed next to her, feeling stiff and uncomfortable and awkward. He didn’t belong here. Any moment she’d tug his robe open, see that the scars covering one half of his face also went down his side, and be repulsed. She’d pull away and then he’d be left wallowing in his own humiliated fury.
To his surprise, Gretchen reached over and turned off the lamp, setting the room in darkness. “Better?” she asked softly. “You seem uneasy.”
He was. He was tense as hell and kept waiting for her to come to her senses and realize he wasn’t handsome. “The lights off is better for you,” he bit out. “Less to see.”
Her warm chuckle in the dark made his c*ck jump, and he nearly groaned aloud when her hair brushed against his shoulder. Gretchen’s fingers touched his chest, lightly trailing along his chest hair. “I like the way you look.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said harshly, a stab of anger flaring through him. He kept his fists clenched at his side, though he wanted nothing more than to touch her. “I know what I look like.”
“I do, too,” she said easily, and those teasing fingers trailed down his stomach, lightly swirling at his belly button. “You have dark hair and a strong nose, and scars on one side of your face. You’re taller than me, have big arms, and you turn your cheek aside when possible, like you’re trying to shield the world from your face.”
The breath left him. Stunned, he said nothing for a long moment, waiting. Waiting for her to say something. When she remained quiet, he struggled for something to say, to make her feel the depth of his struggle. “People flinch when they look at me. They turn away when they see my face.”
“People are a**holes,” she said, and he felt her shoulders lift as if she were giving a tiny shrug. “You’re a gorgeous, intelligent man . . . with a few scars.”
Her finger dipped into his belly button, distracting him from the angry protest about to spill forth. She wasn’t listening to him. She didn’t understand what it was like to be the one who everyone looked away from. To turn people’s stomach with a look of your face.
To be so utterly alone in the world.
Of course, he was having a hard time thinking about being alone while she played with his navel, her fragrant hair brushing against his cheek.
“Won’t you touch me?” she whispered back to him. “You seem so stiff and angry.”
He ached with his need to touch her. Ached. But something held him back. Fear of . . . what? Rejection? Seeing that look of loathing on her face that he’d seen so many times?
“I don’t know how to do this, Gretchen.”
“Hmm?” The teasing lilt was back in her voice. “Don’t know how to touch me?”
“No,” he said harshly, hating the word even as he spit it out. “I’ve never . . . I don’t . . .”
“That’s all right, Hunter.”
“It’s not,” he said roughly, reaching out and daring to touch a lock of her hair that was tickling his chest. It was soft and silky, and his mind immediately filled with images of her hair sliding all over him, her nak*d body following. His c*ck reared, and he bit his lip to keep from spilling with need. “It’s . . . not . . . okay.”