UNINHIBITED

by Candace Schuller

  Reed automatically reached out and took her bare foot in his left hand. He grasped the toe ring with the thumb and index finger of his right, as if he meant to slip it off, and then sat there motionless, staring at her elegant, arched instep, her painted toenails, the fantasy-inspiring body jewelry—and wondered what in the hell kind of game they were playing here.

  "Reed?"

  He looked up at her then, slowly, his gaze moving from her slender ankle and long, bare leg to the pool of bright paisley fabric tangled around her smooth thighs and luscious hips. To her firm, braless breasts beneath the baggy gold sweater, her tangle of wildfire hair, her lush, seductive mouth, her expressive gypsy eyes.

  She was looking at him with a sort of helpless fascination—part wide-eyed wonder, part breathless anticipation, part trembling excitement. He could see a bit of wariness and trepidation in her gaze, too, no matter what she said to the contrary. But mostly there was heat. Fierce, smoldering, female heat. And need. And desire, for him.

  His hand tightened on her foot as he waged one last hopeless battle with his baser instincts. She was innocent, he reminded himself, clamping down on the snarling, snapping wolf inside by sheer force of will. She didn't know what she was inviting by looking at him that way. Not really. No matter what she thought, she deserved careful handling, sensitivity and consideration—and all he wanted to do was ravage her.

  "Reed?" she said again. Her voice was breathy and trembling, ripe with invitation. Her eyelids drifted down. Her head fell back. Her tongue darted out to lick at those luscious raspberry lips. Her foot flexed in his hand. "Reed, please…"

  The leash snapped and the wolf sprang free. "To hell with being a gentleman," he growled, relinquishing what was left of his good intentions as he dragged her across the playing circle on her back. He'd take her as carefully as he could but, dammit, he'd take her!

  It was what they both wanted.

  Zoe uttered one high-pitched squeak of surprise and delicious excitement as her hands skittered out from under her and she fell backward on to the floor. She felt her skirt slide up under her, felt his hands slide up her legs. And then she was under him, pinioned to the smooth hardwood floor by his greater weight, her bare thighs spread wide to cradle his hips, her breasts flattened by his hard, hairy chest. His fingers tangled in her fiery corkscrew curls as he tenderly lifted her face to his kiss.

  He claimed her mouth with almost brutal force, ravishing it with a long, deep, devouring kiss. His mouth was wet and rapacious, greedy and giving. Ruthlessly demanding and exquisitely, savagely tender by turns. When he plunged his tongue between her lips, blatantly miming the sexual act they both desired so desperately, she whimpered and squirmed against him.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured, drawing back to look down at her. Her lips were shiny and swollen, as red as bitten cherries; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes closed as if in pain. "I've hurt you already. I'm sorry." He pressed his hands flat to the floor on either side of her head and started to push himself up. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  Zoe grabbed his shoulders, desperate to hold him where he was, now that she had him where she wanted him. "No. Don't go. Don't stop. You didn't hurt me. I'm not hurt." She slid her hands up under his arms, hooked them over his shoulders from behind and raised herself against him. Head back, chin lifted, she tried to reach his lips with hers. "Kiss me again," she pleaded.

  "Zoe, sweetheart—"

  She nipped at his chin. "Kiss me again!" He kissed her again. And again.

  And kept on kissing her. Her open, avid lips. Her flushed cheeks. Her closed eyelids. The soft, sweet skin on the underside of her chin. The tender place behind her ear. The tempting hollow at the base of her throat. He used his lips and teeth and tongue, nipping, nibbling, licking, sucking. Deep soul kisses meant to arouse and inflame. Quick, fleeting kisses meant to tease and tantalize. Moist baby kisses meant to cosset and coddle. And while he kissed her … tasted her … breathed her in with every deep, shaky inhalation, his hands wandered, touching her everywhere, the way she'd said she wanted them to … the way he'd fantasized about touching her.

  He stroked the length of her bare thigh with his fingertips, slid the flat of his hand over the curve of her satin-clad hip, slipped it up under her sweater to tease the flat, quivering skin of her belly, and farther up, to cup her breast in his palm.

  She writhed and whimpered beneath him, making little mewling noises in her throat, her lush, supple body responding to his lightest caress as if it had been made for him and him alone. Her kisses were as avid, as hungry, as his. Her hands moved restlessly over his bare back and shoulders, stroking and kneading, her smooth copper-colored nails leaving little indentations in his skin.

  He forgot about hurting her, or frightening her. Even through the red haze of passion that clouded his mind, it was obvious to him, now, that she was neither hurt nor frightened. No woman could respond the way she was responding if she was in any way uncertain about what she was doing.

  Abandoning all thoughts of stopping, all thoughts of slowing down, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled over onto his back, reversing their positions. She shifted with him, her mouth still pressed to his, her slender arms still coiled around his neck as if she would never let him go. He reached up behind his head and grasped her hands, loosening her grip easily enough, then slid his palms along her arms to her shoulders, pushing her upright, so that her knees parted and draped bonelessly on either side of his hips.

  She looked down at him, her expression simmering, expectant, compliant … waiting.

  "Take your sweater off," he ordered.

  Without a word, she crossed her arms over her waist and grasped the hem of her sweater in both hands.

  "Slowly," he added as she started to pull it off. "Very slowly."

  She hesitated briefly and then started again, slowly, as ordered, drawing her crossed arms up, revealing her torso inch by agonizing inch. The first tantalizing slice of skin appeared above the waistband of her paisley skirt, then the delicate bones of her narrow rib cage came into view… The lush underside of her breasts … her nipples, pebbled and pointed, and the same deep raspberry-pink as her lips … the fragile upper chest and elegant line of her collarbone… The vulnerable hollow of her underarms, her sleek, smooth shoulders—all revealed and then partially concealed again by the fiery cascade of curls that tumbled down around her as she drew the sweater over her head and dropped it on the floor.

  Reed rumbled a low growl and just barely managed to keep himself from grabbing at her as if he were a hormone-ridden sixteen-year-old faced with his first real live, naked female. Lord, she was magnificent. Her arms were slim and well toned. Her waist was impossibly slender. Her breasts were … oh, Lord, her breasts were perfect. Lush and round and firm. And all that wild hair, curling down around her torso, playing peekaboo with perfection. She was a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, a Playboy centerfold and Botticelli's Venus, all rolled into one. Sleek, sensual, delicate. In a word, magnificent. She was everything he'd ever imagined.

  And she was, at this moment, his!

  All his.

  Only his.

  He clamped his hands around her waist and drew her infinitesimally closer. "Arch your back," he whispered raggedly, exerting subtle pressure against her spine to exaggerate the position he wanted her to assume. "That's it. Now, lift your arms and brush your hair back behind your shoulders so I can see all of you. Don't go shy on me now, sweetheart," he coaxed when she hesitated. "You have a beautiful body. Beautiful breasts. More beautiful than I could possibly have imagined. You should be proud to show them off. To me," he added, in case she misunderstood. "Only to me." His hands tightened on her waist. "Say it."

  "Only to you," she murmured obediently, thrilled by the demand in his voice. In his eyes. In his hands.

  "I want to touch them. You." He slid his palms up along her sides, over her rib cage, until his thumbs just brushed the underside of her breasts, lightly, back and forth.

  She suc
ked in her breath and held it. "Do you like that, Zoe?"

  She nodded. "Yes."

  He moved his hands higher, so that his thumbs brushed her nipples "And this?" He strummed them lightly—once, twice—his eyes on her face while he caressed her. "Do you like this?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you want more?"

  "Oh, yes. Please."

  "Please what?"

  "More."

  "More what?"

  "Touch me."

  "Touch you where? How?" His fingertips danced over the lush swell at the side of her breast. "Like this?"

  "No … my … my nipples. Like you did before."

  He strummed her nipples again, very lightly. "Like that?"

  "Yes. No." It wasn't enough, what he was doing. She needed—wanted—something more. She arched her back again, of her own accord this time, trying to press her throbbing nipples more firmly against his thumbs. "Harder."

  He grasped the raspberry-pink tips between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pinched lightly. And then again, not so lightly.

  She moaned and her head fell back as hot, searing pleasure shot through her. She'd never felt anything like it before. Not an orgasm, exactly. But close, tantalizingly close, as if the nerve endings in her nipples were directly connected to the throbbing button of flesh between her legs. The not-quite orgasm made her achy and itchy, and demanding.

  "More." She grasped his wrists, trying to move his hands so that they more fully covered her breasts. "Oh, please. More."

  Reed reared up and over, supporting her with a hand splayed against her bare back, rolling her beneath him, dipping his head to her breast in one smooth movement. He took her tightly pebbled nipple into his mouth, sucking strongly, so that she moaned and arched helplessly against him. He slid his free hand along her leg under her skirt, skimming up her thigh, cupping his palm over the narrow strip of damp purple satin between her legs. He pressed the heel of his hand against the swollen mound of her pubis. Just that, just a fleeting downward pressure, and she came.

  It was a white-hot burst of feeling, like nothing she'd ever experienced or produced on her own. Her whole body tensed with it, straining, holding on to the feeling as long as she could. And then she moaned again, deep in her throat, and her hips rolled, undulating against his hand, instinctively seeking more of the same. Reed slipped his fingers under the elastic leg of the panties to stroke her still-vibrating flesh. She came again, the second peak building upon the first, and the feeling was higher, sharper, more focused, more intense than before, but still not enough. Not nearly enough. She reached down blindly, grabbing at his hand, pressing it more firmly to her, desperate to feel the pressure where she need it most.

  "Inside," she demanded, tilting her pelvis up to meet the hard thrust of his fingers. "I need you insi—"

  Her third climax left her breathless and shaking and frantic for the ultimate joining. Her whole body strained upward. Reaching. Yearning. She was painfully, passionately aroused, wild with the desire to be filled, to be taken, to be his.

  "Now." She grabbed at his hip, trying to pull him more fully on top of her, twined her leg over his, bit at his shoulder like a female animal in heat, blind to everything except the burning need for his complete and utter possession. "Now, now, now!"

  He didn't make her wait. Couldn't. His need was as desperate as her own, as mindless, as frantic. As much as she needed to be filled, he needed to fill her.

  Still holding her in the cradle of one arm, he rolled slightly away, just enough to yank at the fly of his trousers and free himself. With worsted wool and silk boxer shorts shoved down around his thighs, he reached back under her skirt, shoving it up around her waist, and tore her satin panties off with one sharp, savage tug. And then he was on top of her again, between her thighs, his throbbing, rock-hard cock poised at the entrance to her body.

  It was then, with the feel of naked flesh against naked flesh, and her open and quivering beneath him, that he realized he'd forgotten the condom. Forgotten the damned condom! He'd never made love to a woman without protection. Not even the first time, when Janice Hawkins, experienced woman of the world that she was, had produced one out of her little beaded evening bag and put it on him before she'd let him do the deed she'd lured him to the boathouse to do. Ever since then, gentleman that he was, he'd taken care of supplying the protection. And he'd forgotten! Well, no, he hadn't actually forgotten, he assured himself, remembering the two foil packets he'd slipped into his pants pocket before he'd left his bedroom that morning in anticipation of doing just what he was doing.

  "Reed. Reed, please," she moaned, and lifted her body to his. She was panting tightly, her body still vibrating with the aftershocks of her first three orgasms, her eyes wide-open and glazed with passion as she stared up at him.

  Sweat broke out across his upper hp as the need to take, to ravage, tore through him. Oh, Lord, it was tempting. So tempting to take what was offered, to sink into that sweet female flesh without protection and worry about the consequences later. She wouldn't stop him. She wouldn't even realize until later that they'd made love without that little latex barrier. She wouldn't blame him, either. They'd both been lost in the moment … both forgotten … both…

  "Oh, hell." He pulled back and reached down again, scrambling for his pants.

  "Reed?"

  "It's all right, sweetheart. Just give me a minute here." His voice was nearly as shaky as his hands. "Just a second. There, that's got it." He took her into his arms again, settling her back under him, pressing soft, soothing baby kisses over her face as he positioned himself for entry.

  She was still at fever pitch, as ready for the next step as she would ever be. And he was more ready than he had ever been. He pressed forward, telling himself to go slow, to be gentle. No matter how aroused she was, how ready, this first time was bound to be uncomfortable, if not downright painful. He eased into her a little way, then a little more, quaking with eagerness, barely controlling the urge to bury himself to the hilt.

  Zoe was less cautious. "Do it," she demanded. "Do it now. Please!"

  She arched eagerly, wildly, impatient for his full possession, just as he drove his hips downward. There was a sharp, burning pain as he broke through the barrier of her virginity, more intense than she'd expected, but not unbearable. She sucked in a short, hard breath—more in surprise than anything else—and went rigid for a second.

  He went stock-still.

  But he didn't pull out. He couldn't. Not now. Maybe not ever. She was so tight! Hot and wet and incredibly tight. He wanted to stay right where he was for the rest of his natural life. Well, maybe not right where he was. He had a powerful urge to thrust himself into her, as hard and as fast as possible. The effort it took to restrain the urge had him shaking again, every muscle in his body rock hard and trembling with the effort to hold back. His breathing was labored, his heart pounded, his engorged penis twitched with the need to move, but he held himself immobile and waited until she was ready to take more of him.

  "Okay now, sweetheart?" he said when he felt the rigidity seep out of her.

  "Yes. I'm fine." Her voice was a little reedy, but the tone was firm and sure. "It just took me by surprise, is all."

  He lifted a shaking hand and brushed a long, curling tendril of hair back from her face. "Are you in any pain?"

  "No." The pain had faded into a kind of dull, throbbing ache and a feeling of fullness that was more unfamiliar than uncomfortable. "I just feel kind of … stretched." She smiled up into his eyes. "I like it."

  He withdrew slowly and entered her again, just as slowly. "How about that?" He held her gaze with his as he moved above her, watching intently for any sign of pain or discomfort, gauging her reaction, measuring her response. "Do you like that?"

  "Oh, yes. I like that. A lot."

  "And that?" He thrust again, a bit harder, adding a little grinding motion on the downstroke that caused her breath to catch in her throat, her eyes to widen in pleasure and surprise.<
br />
  "Yes, that, too. Oh…" Her eyes glazed over. "Oh, yes. Just like that."

  It took several more slow, grinding thrusts to raise her level of arousal to the point it had been at before the pain of her deflowering had surprised them both. But he was a notoriously thorough man, obsessed, some said, with doing things in just exactly the right way. In less than ten minutes he'd increased his pace and was thrusting into her like a pile driver, and she was taking it greedily, thrusting back. Five minutes after that, she was rigid in his arms again, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, her eyes glazed with mindless passion, her body shattering into white-hot sparks of pure, incandescent pleasure as she experienced her first orgasm with a man inside her. Ten seconds later, he followed her into the fiery bliss with a groan that sounded as if it had been dredged up from the bottoms of his feet.

  "Meltdown," he murmured, his voice rich with satisfaction and pleasure.

  He collapsed against her, his body drained, his mind dazed, his arms still hard around her as if he would never let her go. He lay with his face burrowed into the damp hollow of her neck, panting like a long-distance runner who'd just set a new record at the Boston Marathon. Zoe held him, her breath still shuddering in and out of her lungs, her body still throbbing in the afterglow, her hands stroking the long smooth muscles of his back in an effort to soothe them both. It took a few minutes for the world to right itself around them, for their hearts to stop pounding, for their chests to stop heaving, for their eyes to clear and refocus.

  And, as the world slowly reformed around them, Zoe became aware of a slight discomfort. She sighed and shifted beneath him in an attempt to ease it.

  Reed pressed a tender, openmouthed kiss to the soft, sweet place where her neck curved into her shoulder. "I'll move in a minute," he promised, the words muffled against her throat. "Just as soon as I can."

  "I'd like to stay just like this all day but—"

  She squirmed again, moving in a way that made him think it might not take him as long to recover as he'd thought.