The Smoke Theif
Chapter 9
She'd never kissed, or been kissed, with passion before, with tenderness. She'd never known what it could mean to have a man explore the corners of her mouth, to feel him drag his lips over hers, so slowly, so sweetly, that breathing no longer seemed possible or even necessary. To have his hands reach up to cradle the back of her neck, his thumbs against her cheeks, stroking as his mouth stroked, is heady, exquisite circles. Rough beard, gentle tongue. The taste of him, the musky scent. The wall behind her but the fever of their bodies never touching... and yet he drew magic from her into him, offering it back again with every languorous caress.
His hair made a gold-silk curtain between them, a have of color. She felt light and burning, a leaf brushed by wind beyond her measure; she remembered distantly something someone--a baron, one night at a ball-- said to her: lips like a cherry's pucker, a ripe red bite. And she'd never fathomed that until now.
"Don't what?" Rue managed, her voice a thin thread of itself.
"Hmmmm?" Kit nuzzled her throat. She felt his teeth against her skin.
"Don't what?" she asked again , as her own hands were coming up to his shoulders, finding the smooth curves of him there, the way his muscles felt like supple stone, yielding and not. He brought his mouth back to hers as she dragged her palms down his arms and up again, something restless waking in her, something eager and unknown.
He closed the last step between them, breathing a laugh against her temple. "Move." His body was pure, hard heaven against hers; his lips skimmed her nose, her cheekbone, her jaw -- tiny, teasing kisses that turned into a groan as their bodies aligned in perfect pleasure. "Don't move, little mouse."
She shut her eyes. She pushed her hips against his and took his tongue into her mouth, letting him fill her with himself, lost to the yearning that uncurled through her body, a heavy, liquid fire that built, unbearable -- as if it has touch, the right man, the right moment....
...in an empty house. In the dark. Like strangers.
She'd never kissed, or been kissed, with passion before, with tenderness. She'd never known what it could mean to have a man explore the corners of her mouth, to feel him drag his lips over hers, so slowly, so sweetly, that breathing no longer seemed possible or even necessary. To have his hands reach up to cradle the back of her neck, his thumbs against her cheeks, stroking as his mouth stroked, is heady, exquisite circles. Rough beard, gentle tongue. The taste of him, the musky scent. The wall behind her but the fever of their bodies never touching... and yet he drew magic from her into him, offering it back again with every languorous caress.
His hair made a gold-silk curtain between them, a have of color. She felt light and burning, a leaf brushed by wind beyond her measure; she remembered distantly something someone--a baron, one night at a ball-- said to her: lips like a cherry's pucker, a ripe red bite. And she'd never fathomed that until now.
"Don't what?" Rue managed, her voice a thin thread of itself.
"Hmmmm?" Kit nuzzled her throat. She felt his teeth against her skin.
"Don't what?" she asked again , as her own hands were coming up to his shoulders, finding the smooth curves of him there, the way his muscles felt like supple stone, yielding and not. He brought his mouth back to hers as she dragged her palms down his arms and up again, something restless waking in her, something eager and unknown.
He closed the last step between them, breathing a laugh against her temple. "Move." His body was pure, hard heaven against hers; his lips skimmed her nose, her cheekbone, her jaw -- tiny, teasing kisses that turned into a groan as their bodies aligned in perfect pleasure. "Don't move, little mouse."
She shut her eyes. She pushed her hips against his and took his tongue into her mouth, letting him fill her with himself, lost to the yearning that uncurled through her body, a heavy, liquid fire that built, unbearable -- as if it has touch, the right man, the right moment....
...in an empty house. In the dark. Like strangers.
