am.” Her voice came in a rough whisper. “Oh Kirk, I am. So much. I’m sorry I didn’t come right away, as soon as I knew that I . . .”
“That you what?” He sounded distracted, maybe because he was trying to kiss her neck as he made his way past packing cartons down the hall to his bedroom.
“Well, as soon as I thought I might love you.”
“Might?” He kicked open the door to his bedroom, which, thank the lord, still held a bed. “Let’s see if we can’t do better than that.”
Chapter Nine
----
N OW THAT K IRK had Maribel where he wanted her, where he’d dreamed of having her for so long, no way was he going to drop the ball. He whisked her into the bedroom as if she weighed less than a pillow and flung her onto his bed. Her glorious auburn hair tumbled around her ears as she looked up at him, eyes wide with delight, mouth gaping adorably.
He stood over her, feeling like Tarzan and a Viking marauder rolled into one. He was practically beating his chest. “Mind if I rip your clothes off now?” he said with rough-edged courtesy, so as to distinguish himself from his pillaging Scandinavian ancestors.
“Feel free,” she laughed.
So he did. Off went the pale green T-shirt with the retro Cadillac printed on it. The bra underneath, which was some blurred shade of white that he’d never be able to identify again, seemed to melt under the intensity of his lust. Her lovely breasts—there they were, just as he’d remembered during his restless nighttime fantasies—the size of perfect new apples, just as juicy and perky as a man could want. His mouth watered at the sight of her hard little nipples, already erect before he’d even touched them. Her skin was so delectable, so smooth and faintly freckled here and there. After he lifted her legs to pull off her jeans and underwear—a vague shade of pink—he parted her legs in awe to find a fluffy patch of ginger curls simply begging for his tongue.
He obliged, of course, but not until he’d done a thorough taste test of the rest of her body. She was full of sensual puzzles. How could the skin over her bottom rib taste like vanilla, whereas the curve to her waist tasted like green apples? Why did she quiver when he swirled his tongue around her belly button, but flat-out moan when he explored the dip between her hipbones? He could swear that one nipple was slightly plumper than the other, but he had to keep switching from one to the other to make sure. That brought on a whole cascade of sounds from Maribel, every one of which acted like a shot of adrenaline to his rearing cock.
He was so hard he could hang a fireman’s coat on his boner. And as he knelt over her, licking and savoring, it kept bumping against her satin skin, each little brush a fresh torment of temptation. He wanted to bury himself inside her, make her his in the primal, ancient way of men, feel her heat from the inside, hear her cries as she surrendered her body and heart to him.
But first he wanted her to know how much he felt for her. His mouth had never been his best tool, word-wise, but now he put it to use loving every last inch of her. With hands, body, tongue, lips, he told her how much he loved her, how much she inspired him, how he’d lay down his life for her, how everything he had was hers. And when he finally allowed his tongue to brush against the delicate tissues hiding behind that soft puff of hair, her desperate writhing—and the death grip she had on his head—-told him he didn’t have to wait another second.
He reared up and placed his cock at her entrance. So close, so close . . . then a moment of sanity surfaced and he flung himself off her as if he’d been electrocuted.
“What? What?” She sat up, wild-eyed. “What happened? Why’d you stop?”
“Condom,” he gasped. “Protect. You. Safe.” Yes, words had definitely deserted him; he was apparently doing his own version of “Me Tarzan, you Jane.”
“Well, hurry !”
He hurried. He
“That you what?” He sounded distracted, maybe because he was trying to kiss her neck as he made his way past packing cartons down the hall to his bedroom.
“Well, as soon as I thought I might love you.”
“Might?” He kicked open the door to his bedroom, which, thank the lord, still held a bed. “Let’s see if we can’t do better than that.”
Chapter Nine
----
N OW THAT K IRK had Maribel where he wanted her, where he’d dreamed of having her for so long, no way was he going to drop the ball. He whisked her into the bedroom as if she weighed less than a pillow and flung her onto his bed. Her glorious auburn hair tumbled around her ears as she looked up at him, eyes wide with delight, mouth gaping adorably.
He stood over her, feeling like Tarzan and a Viking marauder rolled into one. He was practically beating his chest. “Mind if I rip your clothes off now?” he said with rough-edged courtesy, so as to distinguish himself from his pillaging Scandinavian ancestors.
“Feel free,” she laughed.
So he did. Off went the pale green T-shirt with the retro Cadillac printed on it. The bra underneath, which was some blurred shade of white that he’d never be able to identify again, seemed to melt under the intensity of his lust. Her lovely breasts—there they were, just as he’d remembered during his restless nighttime fantasies—the size of perfect new apples, just as juicy and perky as a man could want. His mouth watered at the sight of her hard little nipples, already erect before he’d even touched them. Her skin was so delectable, so smooth and faintly freckled here and there. After he lifted her legs to pull off her jeans and underwear—a vague shade of pink—he parted her legs in awe to find a fluffy patch of ginger curls simply begging for his tongue.
He obliged, of course, but not until he’d done a thorough taste test of the rest of her body. She was full of sensual puzzles. How could the skin over her bottom rib taste like vanilla, whereas the curve to her waist tasted like green apples? Why did she quiver when he swirled his tongue around her belly button, but flat-out moan when he explored the dip between her hipbones? He could swear that one nipple was slightly plumper than the other, but he had to keep switching from one to the other to make sure. That brought on a whole cascade of sounds from Maribel, every one of which acted like a shot of adrenaline to his rearing cock.
He was so hard he could hang a fireman’s coat on his boner. And as he knelt over her, licking and savoring, it kept bumping against her satin skin, each little brush a fresh torment of temptation. He wanted to bury himself inside her, make her his in the primal, ancient way of men, feel her heat from the inside, hear her cries as she surrendered her body and heart to him.
But first he wanted her to know how much he felt for her. His mouth had never been his best tool, word-wise, but now he put it to use loving every last inch of her. With hands, body, tongue, lips, he told her how much he loved her, how much she inspired him, how he’d lay down his life for her, how everything he had was hers. And when he finally allowed his tongue to brush against the delicate tissues hiding behind that soft puff of hair, her desperate writhing—and the death grip she had on his head—-told him he didn’t have to wait another second.
He reared up and placed his cock at her entrance. So close, so close . . . then a moment of sanity surfaced and he flung himself off her as if he’d been electrocuted.
“What? What?” She sat up, wild-eyed. “What happened? Why’d you stop?”
“Condom,” he gasped. “Protect. You. Safe.” Yes, words had definitely deserted him; he was apparently doing his own version of “Me Tarzan, you Jane.”
“Well, hurry !”
He hurried. He
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