by Sharon Ervin
Finally, she raised her hand and cupped it over the swell on one side of his marvelous chest. Goose bumps beaded her arm. Her heart pounded in her throat and temples. She swallowed hard and withdrew her hand.
Her face felt hot with the blush that warmed her, shoulders to scalp. Despite previous sexual experience, Sara had never before touched a man’s bare chest, had never even seen one that compared with this.
When she risked a look at his face, he raised his eyebrows and motioned with his index finger from her waist to her neck. She retreated a step. The backs of her knees bumped the rocking chair.
“Me? No. No, I can’t.” She shook her head, surprised and alarmed. “You’d be disappointed. I don’t have any muscles at all, nothing to compare with yours. It’s all flab under here.”
He raised his eyebrows, questioning, spread his hands, palms toward his body, then again pointed at her waist and up.
“I know you did it when I asked you to. You’re a real sport. But I’m intimidated. Next to you, I’m a cream puff.”
He stood motionless. Unable to read the expression on his face, she fidgeted.
“Bo, the truth is, I’m not much fun, you know, in bed...sex. Even stuck here, bored out of your gourd with nothing to do and a blizzard outside, well, it wouldn’t be much fun for you and it sure wouldn’t be any fun for me. I’ve tried. I just don’t do it well. I’m uptight, unresponsive. I think the textbook term is frigid. I don’t like sex. I wish I did.”
She hesitated and lowered her voice as her eyes retraced his midsection wistfully. “I really do wish I did.” She looked into his face again, eager for him to understand. “But I don’t.”
He held one hand, palm down, perpendicular to his waist, then raised it to his neck.
“Only our shirts? Nothing else? We leave the rest of our clothes on? Is that what you mean?”
He allowed a slight nod, his eyes trained on her face. She frowned back at him.
Bo accommodated her, provided all the essentials for survival, took good care of her. Okay, she rationalized, so he wanted to look at her, just the top of her. Big deal. He’d practically seen all of her already. Besides, it was only fair when she was standing there getting an eyeful him. She fingered the buttons on her shirt, considering.
Still sore from her struggles with Franklin, she hadn’t bothered to wear a bra during her convalescence. She had not anticipated this game of strip. She should have, she supposed, since she was the one who initiated it.
She studied the floor, still thinking. Neither of them moved.
Finally, deliberately, she undid the buttons on her blouse, then hesitated. Shifting the fabric, clutching the front closed, keeping her eyes trained on the floor, she eased her arms out of their sleeves, one at a time, careful to keep her torso covered. Her eyes darted to his.
Bo didn’t move, made no sound, watched without expression.
Encouraged, she stood very straight, sucked in her breath, and removed the shirt, tossing it beside his clothing on the chair.
He remained absolutely still.
Squinting, Sara forced her eyes to his face.
A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth as he regarded her with what appeared to be scientific curiosity. He held up one hand and arched his eyebrows, mutely asking permission to touch her. She had touched him, after all. Again his request seemed only fair. She drew another deep breath, braced herself and whispered, “Okay.”
He placed three fingers beneath one of her breasts and lifted as if determining its weight. He seemed calm.
The coffee she had started, boiled over, the hot liquid sizzling on the metal plate. Without taking his eyes from her, Bo withdrew his hand as she moved.
Stepping around him, she hurried to the cook stove, moved the coffee pot halfway off the plate and did the same with the skillet in which the slice of ham sputtered. Water kettles simmered on the two back plates.
Ignoring Bo and the fact that they were both nude from the waist up, Sara turned her attention to the abandoned biscuit dough. She added the buttermilk and began kneading the mixture.
Moving silently to stand behind her, he slipped his arms around her, placing his warm chest against her bare back. She felt him inhale before he placed his hands over hers as she began massaging the dough.
Her breathing became erratic, the air hot in her throat and lungs. She didn’t know what was happening but little gates, barriers inside her, seemed to pop open or disintegrate.
Even after the biscuit dough was the right consistency, she continued kneading it, enjoying the feel of his hands on her hands, his arms running the length of hers, the feel of him breathing in and out against her back.
The dough toughened from elastic to rubbery as his hands continued riding hers in the bowl. Beads of sweat formed along her upper lip, in spite of the winter storm raging outside.
He shifted, put his arms under hers to splay his hands on her bare midriff. His palms were warm. She felt his biceps flexing at either side of her rib cage. A tremor moved through his upper body as he acquired her breasts, one in each hand.
Scarcely able to breathe, Sara dropped the ball of dough into the bowl, rocked her head back and allowed herself to be pulled tightly against him. She placed her hands on his as he kneaded her breasts, thumbing the sensitive nipples.
His beard tickled and she tilted her head to one side, encouraging his mouth to the nape of her neck. Groans of pleasure vibrated from his chest to her back.
Lower, she felt the dreaded cock coming to life, hard, probing at her spine. He definitely was sexually functional. So much for the eunuch theory.
Sara didn’t object when his hands drifted down her stomach to her waist. She kept her hands on his, piggy backing everywhere his ventured. His touch was warm, exhilarating.
He hesitated only a moment, unfastening the closure on her jeans. Her fly flapped open and the oversized denims dropped lower on her hips.
His hands crisscrossed her abdomen, sliding slowly, tenderly, exploring, past her belly button and down inside her panties. Suddenly she flinched, returned to reality, twisting, grabbing both sides of her open jeans, frantic to escape.
He released her and retreated a step. Without looking at him, Sara refastened her jeans and grabbed her shirt from the chair. Bo caught the other end before she could slip an arm into a sleeve. Her eyes met his and his somber gaze calmed her. He shook his head slightly. His eyes remained on her face, despite the distraction of her partial nakedness directly in front of him.
Sara allowed him to take the shirt. He tossed it toward the rocker. It slid to the floor as he took her hand.
Sleet renewed its clatter on the tin roof overhead. Fires sputtering in the fireplace and the cook stove warmed the cabin. The forgotten ham and coffee wrapped the occupants in an aromatic embrace.
Bo pulled her with him as he backed up and lowered himself onto the front edge of his rocking chair. He spread his knees and coaxed her forward. She moved hesitantly until she stood squarely in front of him, between his legs.
He put his hands on either side of her waist, pulled her closer, and pressed his mouth to her stomach. His breath and his full lips were hot.
Tilting his head, he nuzzled up under a breast. His beard tickled, causing the same familiar tingling at her elbows, behind her knees, and making chills prickle and bud up and down her extremities.
Steadying her, he rubbed his hairy face against a nipple, startling and arousing her.
Her breathing became harried and shallow. She scarcely moved as he rubbed first one tender tip then the other. Then his mouth enclosed and inhaled nearly one entire breast. Sara gasped with the pleasure of his raspy tongue titillating the aching nub.
He rocked back to look at her face. Scarcely able to breathe, she stepped closer, caught the back of his head with both hands, and forced his mouth back to her breasts, directing it from one to the other and back.
She ignored his smug expression as she pressed him closer and closer, thinking to
suffocate him in that mammalian mass without thinking at all.
Obliging her, he suckled each breast while his hands slid mischievously to her hips, kneading and pressing her roughly, more and more tightly to the intimacy between his legs.
Sara rolled her head back and moaned. The voice did not sound like her own but like a pagan plea coming from someone else, someone caught up in the throes of passion. She had never imagined such sounds could ever come from her.
Distracting her with his mouth, Bo again unfastened her jeans. Laying the front open, he nibbled, his warm lips inching down her stomach. His tongue skewered her belly button as he pulled her denims and underwear down over her hips, then past her thighs, below her knees and let them drop around her ankles.
Trembling, she did not open her eyes, nor did she object.
His bearded chin taunted the soft flesh of her abdomen as his mouth swept the area. She pressed herself more and more tightly against him, vaguely aware of her own sounds and movements unauthorized by her conscious will.
Trying to make herself think, Sara pushed away from him. “All right.” She sounded breathless. “Okay.”
Without looking at her face, Bo pulled her back to him and continued his siege. Her breath came in gulps. Pathetically she tried again to pull away.
“I said okay.” She wheezed, gasping for air. “I’ll let you. I will. But not here. Not like this. On the bed. Let’s go over to the bed.”
He raised his eyes to hers and she was startled, for his was not the passion-driven gape she expected, but a calculating, determined stare. He rocked his head from side to side ever so slightly. No.
She groaned. “Bo, I’ve never been this...this willing. Come on.”
He shook his head again. She hated the smug look, the determination in his eyes.
Confused, she looked to his phallus for reassurance. It was hard, bulging against the confines of his jeans.
The muscles in his arms flexed. She couldn’t restrain her fingertips, couldn’t help herself as she stroked from his shoulders down, squeezing, enjoying the raw power of his straining biceps. She looked into his face, pleading with him, but he shook his head again, denying her unspoken request.
“What do you want from me?” Her voice quaked. “Do you want me to beg? Don’t be stupid. This is as good as it gets. I’ve never really wanted to...” She cleared her throat. This was ludicrous. Here she was standing nude in front of this man, begging him to perform than vile act. “Just know, Bo, I’ve never, ever been this willing to do it.” She diverted her gaze, biting her lips, waiting, but he would not yield.
“Please.” She whispered finally. Her eyes focused on the far wall as her fingers traced his ears and wound into his hair. “Please let’s go over to the bed.”
He locked his arms beneath her buttocks and stood, lifting her with him, crushing her body to his. She laced her fingers into his thick, matted hair and flutter kicked the denims and underwear off her feet as she pulled his head back. He raised his mouth and she planted her lips on his.
His tongue was thick and slow as it moved across her mouth but stopped short of entering. She tried to lure him, to draw his elusive tongue inside, but he would not yield. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he had some kind of injury which maimed his tongue and took his speech from him at the same time.
Both disappointed and pleased, she kissed him frantically, twisting, writhing high in his arms, hoping to drive him to the frenzy she was experiencing.
He carried her to the bed and carefully lowered her to sit on the side. Her feet dangled just above the floor. She kept her arms around his neck wanting to feel and taste more of him, but he was too strong and pulled out of her grasp.
As he stepped back, Sara tried to cover her breasts with her arms and crossed her hands over her lower body to hide the dark curls between her legs. Despite her effort, Bo’s narrowed eyes ran up and down her body.
Stepping gingerly, he removed his boots and socks; unfastened his jeans and pushed them to the floor.
Sara’s breath quickened again as she watched him step out of the jeans. Keeping his eyes on her face, he rolled his long underwear down provocatively, distracted only a moment as he worked the waffled fabric over his arousal.
The hair on the lower part of his torso was the same rich chestnut brown of his beard and the hair on his head. And nested there she saw, not a stiff, narrow little shaft like those she had experienced before, but a magnificent penis, protracted, fully engorged.
Staring, she forgot for a moment to breathe as she glanced to his face then back at his erection. It was so pronounced that she shivered with excitement, taking some kind of perverse pride at having incited a man--particularly this man--to such a profound condition.
She gulped, shattered by a new thought. What if she couldn’t accommodate such a huge appendage? It was much larger than either of those she had experienced before.
Alarmed, she looked at his face trying to read his intentions. Again her breath came in erratic gasps. Had they come too far to turn back? Would he understand when she told him they would have to stop now?
He didn’t look into her face but the way his eyes swept over her, she knew he was acutely aware of every swell and hollow of her body. But could he read her thoughts? Did he know she couldn’t finish this?
Crowding out her apprehension about her sexual ability was her fascination with his anatomy. He was a splendid male, tall, supple, muscular. How could she ever have thought him an elderly gentleman--she smiled a little--or even part bear.
He stood proud and straight and nude before her, allowing her to admire his man’s body, every marvelous muscle flexed to it’s most superb state. She couldn’t help a smile which came from the pleasure of realizing he was again showing off for her.
She quivered and breathed in once, twice, without exhaling. She felt light-headed, suddenly trembling with anticipation. What was happening to her? Where was the dread?
Bo knelt on the floor in front of her before she could give voice to her rapid-fire concerns.
Surprised by his benign approach, she watched, spellbound, as he took one of her feet in each hand. She giggled nervously when he ran his fingers between her toes, studying each one with tender deliberation. He lifted one foot to his mouth and kissed its instep, nuzzling, nibbling. Watching his bowed head, Sara’s breath came and went in erratic bursts.
“Quit. Bo, please. I can’t do this.” She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but instead gulped each breath in unsteady bursts.
Certain that she couldn’t fulfill the unspoken promises of the moment, she felt obligated to let him enjoy what he could of her body, to let him find some satisfaction with her. She owed him, wanted to show her appreciation for all his patience and kindness; for rescuing her from Franklin, of course. Yes, she owed him this much and far more.
But all that was only rationale. What she was feeling at the moment was far beyond gratitude.
He continued nibbling at her feet and ankles.
And for feeding her, she thought, too, and for protecting her. She would endure his pleasure. She had endured men’s pleasure before. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. This mounting excitement was not normally part of her enduring.
“Can’t we...ah...” Her voice quaked. “Can’t we please just get on with it.”
Ignoring her words, he touched his lips to her knees. To her surprise, her legs parted without any other prodding. Sliding forward, placing himself between them, he continued kissing and touching her, still kneeling, there on the floor.
His eyes closed, he rubbed his bearded cheek against the soft inner flesh of her thighs as he allowed his fingers to trace the backs of her legs from her heels, caress her ankles, sweep up her calves to settle at the backs of her knees, then down again.
She had to remind herself to breathe. Her legs quivered as his thick, warm lips nipped at her exposed inner thighs.
“Please.” She whimpered and tried to remove his fingers prowling behind her knees. �
�Please quit. I can’t...”
Mesmerized, inhaling as she could, Sara was sharply aware of the gooseflesh crawling up her legs ahead of and behind the imminence of his hot breath. His fingers fondling the backs of her knees, tracing up and down, sent lucid thought tumbling into some abyss, unretrievable.
She emitted a low whine as his mouth advanced. She could feel herself lubricating, creaming for him. She was aware of a terrible mix of sweet excitement and excruciating anticipation.
Fumbling, he caught both her thumbs with one hand, squeezed them together and lifted, laying her back across the bed.
Her legs trembling on either side of him, she allowed him to stretch her arms high over her head, placing her completely at his mercy; exposed, ripe, vulnerable. She writhed and moaned, trying to remember to breathe, but she didn’t struggle or oppose him.
With his free hand, he stroked her abdomen, toying with her, sweeping toward the entrance to her, each caress firmer, more threatening than the last.
“Please,” she begged, undulating, arching her body toward the pressure from his hand. Her voice had become hushed, reverent.
His hand brushed her pelt.
“Please stop.” When he paused, she wriggled, “No, don’t stop that. I love...your hands...” She twisted to incite the hand to continue its exploration. “Please.” Then more quietly, brokenly, plaintively, she gasped, “Please.” She swallowed a low sob and began babbling.
She pressed herself to the unrelenting hand as it closed on its target, more daunting with each pass. She moaned her objection each time the hand paused. She struggled halfheartedly to sit. She wanted to touch him, to encourage him. Squeezing her captive thumbs in one hand, he kept her arms high, pressed into the bed, not allowing her to interfere with his quest.
She forced her eyes open wanting to look at him. He was perched on the edge of the bed, squinting, his eyes bare slits, watching her face. His body was still, except for his hand which seemed to move at the behest of the deep, throaty moans slipping from her. The hand seemed alert to every murmur as she strove beneath its touch.