Secrets Vol 2

  "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

  He'd heard that before. It meant that she wasn't ready at all. "Just relax. We don't need to do anything tonight, if you don't want to."

  She raised her chin, looking like a brave martyr going to the guillotine. "I'd rather get it over with."

  Get it over with? Good thing he didn't have an ego to bruise. "Let's talk for a while."

  "Okay."

  "I was born and raised here in San Francisco," he said, going

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  into his standard small talk rap. "How long have you lived here?"

  "Four years. I moved here for my job."

  "What do you do?"

  "I'm a graphic artist. Do we have to do this?"

  The change in topic caught him by surprise, drove all of his standard lines out of his head. "Do we have to do what?"

  "Chat like this, as though we just met at a party. It's bizarre."

  She was right, but usually no one commented on it. Maybe she was more prepared for this than she looked. "We don't have to do anything. There are only two rules for our sessions together, Sarah. One is that you tell me if you're uncomfortable. You have the right to say no to anything."

  He paused for a long moment, waiting for her to answer, waiting to make sure his words had penetrated.

  "All right," she finally said.

  "The second rule is that you tell me honestly what you're thinking and feeling, without censoring yourself."

  "All right," she said again.

  "So tell me, how do you feel?"

  "Nervous."

  He nodded. "So do I."

  "You do?"

  "Of course. We just met, but we're thinking about sharing something very intimate."

  "But you've done this before."

  "Not with you."

  She swallowed. "I think I should tell you that I've never...." She trailed off.

  Good lord, she couldn't be a virgin. That was one thing Dr. Lansing should have known to tell him.

  "I've never done this with a stranger before," she finished.

  Thank God. Deflowering virgins wasn't one of his specialties. He gave her hand a little squeeze. "With a stranger, some-

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  times it's easier to..." He searched for a euphemism, but came up blank, "...to enjoy sex."

  She shook her head. "If I can't enjoy sex with a man I care about, how could I possibly enjoy it with a stranger?"

  "And if you do enjoy lovemaking with a stranger, that must mean you're immoral?"

  "Exactly."

  "You're not having a casual fling, Sarah. This is therapy. I'm here to help you, just like Dr. Lansing."

  A wisp of a smile touched her lips. "Sure. The only difference is that Dr. Lansing doesn't ask me to take my clothes off."

  At least she felt comfortable enough to joke with him. He smiled back at her. "You can leave them on for now. I'd like to give you a backrub, if that's okay with you."

  She looked puzzled, as if she couldn't imagine what a massage had to do with sex. But she nodded.

  "Just lie down on your stomach." While she arranged herself, he walked to the door and turned off the bedroom light. The light from the hallway was bright enough to see by, but not harsh or glaring. Good lighting for a slow, thorough session.

  He kicked his shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed near her feet. "I'm going to make you more comfortable." He lifted one of her feet and gently removed her shoe.

  She twisted around and looked at him. "I can undress myself."

  "I'm not undressing you." He took off her other shoe and dropped it to the floor. ""Just relax. Nothing will happen without your consent, I promise."

  She laid back down, and he crawled up the bed until he was kneeling beside her. He touched her back gently, so she wouldn't be startled, then rubbed her shoulders with long, even strokes. She wasn't as skinny as her bulky clothes made her look. She'd seemed dangerously thin, but he could feel supple muscles through her shirt.

  He reached up to stroke her neck, pausing for a long moment to

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  feel the silky softness of her hair, shimmering with golden highlights in the dim light from the hallway. "You have beautiful hair," he said, then almost bit his tongue. He never, ever, complimented a client on her looks. On her responsiveness, yes. On her technique, yes. But never on her looks. Looks were superficial, and had nothing to do with a woman's ability to feel passion. And nothing to do with his job.

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  He concentrated on his hands, tracing a pattern along her spine, massaging her with gentle, easy strokes, just to get her used to his touch. She sighed, a brief exhalation that he felt more than heard.

  "Does this feel good?" he asked. If she'd admit to feeling any pleasure at all, that would be a good sign.

  "Yes. But I'm worried about what you're leading up to."

  "Don't worry about what's next. Just enjoy the massage."

  "I'll try."

  She did seem more relaxed than when he'd begun. Her muscles were less tense, more fluid under his hands.

  She sighed again. "You're very good at this."

  Even her voice sounded languid. A bedroom voice if he'd ever heard one. Time to move on.

  He stretched out beside her, stroking her back with one hand. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, looking as satisfied as a woman who'd climaxed. He couldn't wait to see how she'd look when she did.

  He touched the side of her face, letting his fingers stroke through her hair and tease her ear. She opened her mouth slightly, no doubt because her breathing had increased. He knew the signs.

  "What are you thinking?" she whispered.

  "I'm thinking about kissing you."

  "Oh." She licked her lips quickly, nervously, drawing his attention to her mouth. A beautiful mouth, lips glistening and full, enticingly red even without lipstick. "Go ahead," she said.

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  He leaned toward her, then pulled back. What was he doing, giving in to his impulses like this? He was here for her pleasure, not his own. And before he kissed her, she had to want it. What he wanted was unimportant. Irrelevant.

  "What's wrong?"

  Obviously he'd been silent too long. He gave her a slow smile. "Nothing. I just want to fantasize about kissing you for a little while longer."

  "Why?"

  He leaned over until his lips were against her ear, and whispered, "Because fantasizing about it can be just as exciting as doing it." She trembled a little, but she didn't move away. He did, though, lying down beside her again.

  She didn't say a word, and her eyes were wide.

  "Are you thinking about kissing me?" he asked.

  "Yes." Her tongue darted over her lips again. He wished she'd quit doing that—it distracted the hell out of him.

  "And how does it make you feel?"

  She gave a breathless little laugh, and the sound of it made heat rush to his groin. "Nervous."

  "Don't be. I'm harmless. You can tell me to stop anytime you want." Even though his body wouldn't want to stop. Tonight it seemed to have a mind of its own. If she got any closer, she'd feel the proof, and no doubt be startled witless. He moved his hips away a few inches and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. Calming breaths.

  Time to get back to work. "Let's talk about fantasies" he suggested.

  "Okay."

  Great, she wasn't going to make this easy on him. But why did he expect her to? If it was easy for her, she wouldn't be here with him. "Tell me one of yours."

  She looked frightened by the thought. "I don't have any. When I think about sex, I think about the past. About past failures." She closed her eyes, no doubt trying to block out the painful memories.

  "You won't fail me, Sarah. You don't have to worry about pre-

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  tending with me, about pleasing me. You can concentrate on your own feelings and just ignore me."

&nb
sp; She smiled. "Ignore you? That won't be easy."

  He smiled back at her. All that humor and warmth, and a knockout to boot... she deserved all that life had to offer, including orgasm. Especially orgasm. He stroked her arm through her shirt. "You're hiding in these bulky clothes," he said. "I'm fantasizing about what your body looks like."

  Damn, she looked frightened again. She must be ashamed of her body, trying to drown her figure in yards of cloth. He should have realized that. If he could just lose this damn erection, he'd be able to think more clearly, judge his words more carefully.

  "I can see that you're beautiful, but I'm wondering about the details." To hell with his rule about not complimenting her on her looks. He'd do anything to wipe the insecurity from her eyes. A compliment was easy enough.

  "For example..." He cupped her breast in his hand, molding it gently. "I can feel your shape, but I want to know what color your nipple is. I want to feel the texture of your skin with my tongue, see it glistening with wetness afterward."

  He teased her nipple with his thumb, felt it harden and rise in response.

  She gasped, and her eyes widened. "That feels wonderful," she said, her voice full of surprise.

  Excellent. She felt pleasure. She wanted him. That was the first step. Now he'd turn up the heat, take her all the way.

  He kept stroking her, rubbing her shirt against her sensitive flesh, "imagine how good my hand would feel against your bare skin," he said.

  She closed her eyes and bit her lip, looking a little nervous and a little excited. Both responses were good. He could use the nervousness, make her feel naughty and daring. He moved closer, so that she'd feel his breath on her neck. "I could just reach up under your

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  shirt and touch you," he whispered. "Would you let me do that?"

  She nodded, but didn't say anything.

  "Or maybe I'll push your shirt up instead, so I can watch my hand stroke your skin. Would you like that, Sarah?"

  "I don't know."

  At least she was honest. He backed off a little, moving his hand to the neutral territory of her collarbone. Why was his hand shaking? Because this woman was getting to him, with her big expressive eyes and her vulnerable smile. Not to mention her trim little body, which he could easily imagine underneath him, wrapped around him, on top of him. No wonder his hand was shaking.

  She opened those big blue eyes. "Aren't you going to do it?"

  Was that disappointment, or relief? "Not just yet."

  She reached up and touched his head, and he felt her gently curling strands of his hair around her fingers. "Soft," she whispered. Then she closed her eyes and brought her lips to his, backing off after the lightest possible kiss. When she retreated he followed, pressing his mouth to hers, holding her head still while he brushed his lips across hers, feeling their soft dampness.

  He felt her smile, and pulled back to look at her. "You lied," she said.

  His brain was too clouded to follow that one. "About what?"

  "Kissing you. It was better than fantasizing about it."

  He smiled back at her, then closed his eyes and slowly, deliberately, kissed her again. She kissed him back with tentative movements of her lips that made his heart race. He couldn't stop himself from nipping gently on that full lower lip.

  She gave a tiny little moan, a soft sound of desire that crumbled the wall that kept his own needs at bay. He devoured her, reaching into her mouth with his tongue, learning the tastes and textures of every crevice.

  And she responded, pulling him close, closer, until his erection was pressed thickly against her leg. He moved against her, letting her thigh stroke his hardness, back and forth, in an agonizing, aching caress.

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  Air. Air. He dragged his lips from hers, gasping, and found them against her neck, nipping and teasing and sucking warmth to the surface. Somehow her hands were between them, struggling to open his shirt. He moved away just a fraction, enough to give her room. But she fumbled for too long, and he couldn't wait. He jerked open the waistband of his pants, yanked his shirttails out, and ripped his shirt the rest of the way open.

  Her hands ran over his chest, shyly exploring, her touch so light that it almost tickled. She touched him as if he was the only man she'd ever been with, as if she wanted to please him but didn't quite know how. And suddenly all he could think about was teaching her, grabbing her hand and showing her exactly how he wanted her to touch him. What was wrong with him? He was here for her. To satisfy her.

  He grabbed the bottom of her shirt and pulled it upward, over her head. She lifted her arms to help him. He threw her shirt off the bed and turned to stare at her. Her breasts were gorgeous, barely big enough to fill his hands, but her areolas were huge, the largest he'd ever seen, soft and rosy around erect nipples. He fell on her like a starving man, suckling each breast in turn, and she wove her fingers through his hair, holding him close, wanting him.

  When he finally lifted his head, she rubbed her damp breasts against his bare chest. He groaned. Who on Earth had labelled this woman frigid? Her previous lovers must have been selfish bastards.

  She touched his hip, then slid her hand to the front of his pants and cautiously squeezed him through his jeans. He had to get out of these pants. He yanked the zipper down and pulled his pants to his knees, taking his briefs with them. Her hand closed around his erection, just holding him, and that simple touch nearly made him explode. He put his own hand on top of hers, guiding her, showing her the rhythm he liked. How long had it been since a woman had touched him like this ? Ages. Years. Maybe never. He'd always been the one who did the pleasuring, the one who caressed his partner. Yet here was Sarah, thinking of his needs.

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  But she had needs too, and he knew how to satisfy them. He pulled out of her warm grasp and reached for the elastic waistband of her pants, pulling them off in one quick motion and clumsily taking her underpants with them.

  Just looking at her body made his heart slam against his ribs. She wasn't skinny at all, but lithe and supple and petite. The nest of brown hair between her legs begged for his touch.

  He laid down beside' her, and she rolled onto her side to face him. Her eyes were closed, no doubt from shyness. What would it take to make her open them? He lifted her knee, wedging his thigh between hers to keep her legs apart, and let his fingers trace a slow trail from her breast to her stomach. When he reached between her legs and touched the damp flesh there, she gasped and bit her lip, but kept her eyes tightly closed.

  Then her hand found him, curling around the tip of his shaft, and he couldn't take any more. It was all he could do to fumble through the tangled mess of jeans at his knees until he found a condom.

  He slid the condom on, then he pushed her to her back, rolling over on top of her and finding home between her legs. His first thrust was sure and true, and he couldn't even stop to catch his breath.

  Her muscles contracted around him, squeezing him, making him groan with the pleasure of it. Making him thrust blindly into her, mindlessly seeking release. And she was with him, matching his erratic rhythm, holding on to his shoulders like she never wanted him to stop.

  But he couldn't wait for her. Too late to back off now, to slow down. Too late to bring her with him. He climaxed with deep, wrenching spasms, shuddering and swearing and feeling fierce, primitive satisfaction. So good. So unbelievably good.

  Oh God, what had he done? To climax before his client — it was inconceivable. Selfish. Contemptible.

  He'd make it up to her. There were other ways of making her come, and he'd try them all. Before the last wave of pleasure had

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  ebbed away, he lifted himself to his elbows to tell her so.

  But when he looked into her eyes, they were clear and calm. Passionless. She hadn't been with him at all. She hadn't wanted him. He groaned, and dropped his head to her shoulder. How had he let himself go like that? Here he was, h
alf dressed, pants around his knees, while she lay naked beneath him, open and vulnerable. Used. He'd used her for his own satisfaction, and left her unfulfilled. How could he have done such a thing?

  So much for a slow session. He'd never once asked her if he could undress her, touch her, enter her. She hadn't seemed to mind, but that didn't make it acceptable.

  All he could do was start over, bring her to the boiling point again. And he wouldn't blow it this time. He framed her face in his hands and gave her a long, desperate kiss, twining his tongue with hers.

  She made a choking noise, and pushed at his shoulders. He lifted his head. Her eyes looked troubled, frightened. God, was she frightened of him? "What's wrong?"

  "Why did you kiss me like that?"

  "I wanted to please you. We don't have to stop, Sarah."

  "But I want to stop." Her voice trembled, as if she was about to cry.

  "It can still be good, Sarah. Let me show you."

  "No."

  Damn, she'd almost shouted the word. He took a deep breath. "If you really want to stop..."

  "I do. Please." She smiled, quivering and hesitant. "I think I've had enough for one night."

  He couldn't bear another second of looking into her vulnerable face. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Sarah."

  "Why? It was very nice, Adrian."

  Nice? God, she knew how to hurt a guy. Except he wasn't supposed to feel hurt. He wasn't supposed to feel anything beyond a general sense of satisfaction. He definitely wasn't supposed to feel the gut-wrenching pleasure that had just slammed through him, or

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  the devastating sense of failure over leaving her unsatisfied.

  He carefully disengaged himself and turned away from her to remove the condom. She handed him a tissue.

  "Thank you." He wadded the condom up in the tissue and tossed it into the wastebasket, then turned back to her. She already had her shirt on, and was quickly putting on her pants, obviously eager to hide her body from him. He couldn't blame her.