Her hips tilted and a tiny moan came from her throat. Yes, God, please, she wanted him. She wanted him between her legs, she wanted him as she’d never wanted any man but him. He ran tender kisses up over her flesh, stopping at her breast. With his fingertips he reached up and opened the front clasp of her lace bra.
Anthony took the tight tender flesh of her nipple into the heat of his mouth. Suckling and pulling, rolling the tight bud between his lips. Igniting a cacophony of feelings, of emotion and pleasure. His tongue stroked the nipple, soft and hard, hot and wet. His teeth grazed Shelly’s flesh and her body twisted beneath him.
His hand traveled down, sliding her pants over her hips and knees. Then his fingers slipped beneath her panties, caressing her mound. He rolled her panties down over her hips. His eyes feasted on her naked flesh.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice contained that familiar deep growl, laced with possessiveness. As though she’d always been his. Five years apart dropped away in an instant, the distance between them vanishing as if it had never existed.
He spread her legs, and his finger traveled along her inner flesh and parted her. He pressed her swollen nub. Her hips thrust up, her head thrown back against the edge of the couch. Hot kisses traced up her thigh to her mound. He pressed two fingers deep inside her as his tongue circled around her clit. He sucked her deep into his mouth. His fingers thrust in and out of her body.
God yes, yes, she wanted him, the safety his arms provided. His lips moved against her, his tongue tormented her swollen clit. “Anthony,” she moaned, craving release. He reached up to her breast and pressed his fingers to her nipple. Heat blinded her. She rode the crest of building climax, nearly falling, until his hands and mouth took her over the edge to bliss.
*
The lights of the Christmas tree blinked in the darkness. Cool air caressed Anthony’s bare chest. Shelly lay curled beside him, both of them pressed together on the couch. He reached up and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch over them both. The flashing lights reflected against her porcelain skin.
He’d wanted her. Wanted to take her right here, on this couch, where as teenagers they’d spent countless nights in each other’s arms. But after she’d come, he’d seen tears glistening on her cheeks. Tears he’d kissed away. Shelly hadn’t met his gaze, but instead curled into his arms, and he’d pulled her close to protect her, to keep out the world and whatever made her cry. Now the hour was late, the house was cold, and Shelly still slept in his arms.
There was time. A few hours of time, at least, before the sun crept over the horizon and he needed to wake Shelly to send her upstairs to her room. Mrs. Bello would rise with the sun, and she’d be okay with finding Anthony asleep on the couch, as long as Shelly wasn’t lying beside him. Hell, at their age, and with everything that had happened, she’d probably be okay to find Shelly beside him, possibly thrilled. But he wouldn’t do that to Mrs. Bello, not in her own home. Not when confusion and tough memories already fringed the edges of his relationship with Shelly. He pulled her closer and tucked the blanket around her naked body.
Beauty. Pure beauty. Her face like cut marble, she looked like a statue that belonged in the Louvre. Her high cheekbones and a patrician nose, rosebud lips slightly parted as she slept. Peace. Her face held a peace in sleep that he’d yet to see when she was awake.
He pressed his lips to her forehead. He hadn’t felt this present, this whole, this content since the last time he’d held Shelly in his arms. The night before she’d left, actually, in this very house, on this very couch. Damn, he hadn’t recalled that memory in years. The night of Vinnie’s funeral they’d lain in this very spot, his arms holding her close while she cried into his chest.
He’d thought then he was
Anthony took the tight tender flesh of her nipple into the heat of his mouth. Suckling and pulling, rolling the tight bud between his lips. Igniting a cacophony of feelings, of emotion and pleasure. His tongue stroked the nipple, soft and hard, hot and wet. His teeth grazed Shelly’s flesh and her body twisted beneath him.
His hand traveled down, sliding her pants over her hips and knees. Then his fingers slipped beneath her panties, caressing her mound. He rolled her panties down over her hips. His eyes feasted on her naked flesh.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice contained that familiar deep growl, laced with possessiveness. As though she’d always been his. Five years apart dropped away in an instant, the distance between them vanishing as if it had never existed.
He spread her legs, and his finger traveled along her inner flesh and parted her. He pressed her swollen nub. Her hips thrust up, her head thrown back against the edge of the couch. Hot kisses traced up her thigh to her mound. He pressed two fingers deep inside her as his tongue circled around her clit. He sucked her deep into his mouth. His fingers thrust in and out of her body.
God yes, yes, she wanted him, the safety his arms provided. His lips moved against her, his tongue tormented her swollen clit. “Anthony,” she moaned, craving release. He reached up to her breast and pressed his fingers to her nipple. Heat blinded her. She rode the crest of building climax, nearly falling, until his hands and mouth took her over the edge to bliss.
*
The lights of the Christmas tree blinked in the darkness. Cool air caressed Anthony’s bare chest. Shelly lay curled beside him, both of them pressed together on the couch. He reached up and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch over them both. The flashing lights reflected against her porcelain skin.
He’d wanted her. Wanted to take her right here, on this couch, where as teenagers they’d spent countless nights in each other’s arms. But after she’d come, he’d seen tears glistening on her cheeks. Tears he’d kissed away. Shelly hadn’t met his gaze, but instead curled into his arms, and he’d pulled her close to protect her, to keep out the world and whatever made her cry. Now the hour was late, the house was cold, and Shelly still slept in his arms.
There was time. A few hours of time, at least, before the sun crept over the horizon and he needed to wake Shelly to send her upstairs to her room. Mrs. Bello would rise with the sun, and she’d be okay with finding Anthony asleep on the couch, as long as Shelly wasn’t lying beside him. Hell, at their age, and with everything that had happened, she’d probably be okay to find Shelly beside him, possibly thrilled. But he wouldn’t do that to Mrs. Bello, not in her own home. Not when confusion and tough memories already fringed the edges of his relationship with Shelly. He pulled her closer and tucked the blanket around her naked body.
Beauty. Pure beauty. Her face like cut marble, she looked like a statue that belonged in the Louvre. Her high cheekbones and a patrician nose, rosebud lips slightly parted as she slept. Peace. Her face held a peace in sleep that he’d yet to see when she was awake.
He pressed his lips to her forehead. He hadn’t felt this present, this whole, this content since the last time he’d held Shelly in his arms. The night before she’d left, actually, in this very house, on this very couch. Damn, he hadn’t recalled that memory in years. The night of Vinnie’s funeral they’d lain in this very spot, his arms holding her close while she cried into his chest.
He’d thought then he was
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