Chapter Seventeen – Angela
Chapter Seventeen
Angela
Mark grinned at me as I returned to our booth and sat down. “You look happy.” He’d watched the whole thing go down from a distance, and I had no idea what he was thinking.
“I got us invites. Room two-thirty-eight in ten.”
One of his eyebrows arched. “You’re sure she’s not a pro?”
“Would it count less if she was?” I crossed my legs at the ankles demurely.
“Not in the least.” He finished the last of his drink and set it down. “Now will you believe me that you’re the most beautiful woman here?”
I grinned at him, beaming. “I’ll give myself top-ten, how’s that?”
“Close enough.”
Either of us could call it a night, now—I’d proved something silly to myself, there was no reason to push on, and yet…. “What’s your word if I should call it off?”
He thought for a moment. “Rambunctious. And yours?”
“The same.”
I was close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, to hear his interest in the way his breath caught in his throat. I was almost positive that if I reached down to touch him through his slacks, I’d find him hard.
“What’s she going to do to you?” he asked, his voice so low that I was the only one who could possibly hear it.
“That’s the wrong question,” I corrected him. “You should be asking what I’m going to do to her.” I took his hand and stood back up.
Ten minutes later we were outside ‘Christa’s’ door. Mark said, “Ladies first,” and I lifted my hand to knock.
I rapped gently—there was still a chance that she’d just given me a room number to get away—but moments later she opened the door, wearing the same peach dress she’d been wearing at the club.
“Come on in, Samantha,” she said, turning the name into a purr, before glancing at Mark. “Do you have a code name yet? No? Then I’m going to call you Thor—Thor, go sit in that chair.”
We both walked into her room, where she’d taken a chair and placed it across from the bed facing the wall. Mark gave me a look, then did as he was told.
“I don’t want to hear anything from you, Thor,” Christa said as he sat down. “And no looking back. All you get to do is listen.”
I could see Mark’s jaw tense in profile. But he had a safeword—and her hand was trailing down my arm again, pulling me toward the bed.
I went with her. “There’s no way this won’t be awkward,” I pre-apologized.
“Will it?” she asked, casting a sly glance toward Mark. “I don’t know, I bet it’s like riding a bike.” She sat down, and I sat down beside her. “Too far,” she complained, coming nearer. She twisted to face me, her eyes searching mine.
“How long has it been?” she asked, as her fingertips began to investigate the bottom of my skirt.
“Seven years. Almost eight.” Every time Rabbit had a birthday, I thought about how Willa and her baby…the look on Christa’s face as she read mine, went from inscrutable to kind. She raised her hand to my cheek and placed it against the line of my jaw.
“I’ll be gentle then,” she said, leaning in to kiss me.
All at once I remembered how kissing girls felt right.
Her lips fit mine like they were twins, gentle and soft, as her tongue pushed out to meet mine.
I tilted my head, closed my eyes, and gave myself over to the sensations.
She was—this was—memories came rushing back, and a hunger I’d kept quiet for almost a decade roared.
“Yeah,” she breathed, pulling back, sensing the change in me.
I moved in to follow her, sliding my hand around her waist. We kissed again and again, the twine of our tongues urging our bodies to join them.
We leaned close and, almost as one, fell back against the bed.
My hands went for her hair to keep her mouth near mine while her hands roamed my body, making broad strokes over the stiff fabric of my dress, sending shivers down my spine.
One of her legs tossed over me, her skirt rising high, as I sank one of my hands down to hold her ass while I pushed my hips towards hers.
“Mmm,” she purred, rocking her hips in my time.
Her hands circled my neck to fight the zipper that held my dress up, as I started pulling her dress up with eager palms. “Turn over,” she commanded, unable to get hold of the zipper’s tiny tab.
I did as I was told, whirling right there against her.
She lifted my hair up, kissed my neck, and then started to tug.
I could feel the fabric shift, revealing me, and heard her gasp. “Oh. That’s lovely.”
She’d found the largest of my many tattoos. After the roses that covered up my wolf-prints, and after Willa’s willow—I’d kept with a greenery theme, like a modern-day Poison Ivy, and I had a peony at the nape of my neck. “I have a lot more,” I warned her.
“I’m looking forward to finding them,” she said—and then licked me. Goose bumps sprang up over my whole body. “Sensitive?”
“Very,” I whispered.
“I’ll remember that,” she murmured, and kept pulling the zipper down.
Each tattoo received its own moment of licking reverence, or biting, or the heat of her breath, one by one.
My time with Gray had made me aware of how fragile life was, of how easily everything could be stripped away—and as if to fight that, I’d marked my history on myself, like I was a blank page.
To a random observer, my back would look like a riotous English garden, covered in colorful blooms and blades of green.
But I knew what each one stood for, a lily for my grandmother, a daffodil for my father, and a poppy for my grandfather and columbines, foxgloves and hollyhocks in-between—and nestled right behind my left shoulder, opposite my heart, a rabbit curled and sleeping in the grass.
Christa rose up, still fully clothed and straddling me as the zipper reached the end. “You’re lovely,” she said, with reverence.
I smiled and tucked my head down, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”
She dismounted the bed and sidled the dress off, me helping her, well aware of the heat building between my thighs. I was embarrassed to be so eager, and yet how could I not be?
“Roll over, Samantha,” she said, and I turned, hair spilling across my face. “Mmm, even more,” she said, joining me on the bed again, moving to be above me on all fours. Her lips found my roses and tasted them. Mere inches away, caressed by her hair, my nipples went hard.
I reached up to touch her, to pull her to me, to try to get some traction on this ride—but she ignored me utterly, concentrating only on kissing every marked part of my body.
From the roses to the vines that trailed them—for some reason getting thorns on me had seemed so necessary for protection years ago—to the willow on my hip—her lips found it and she was close, so close to the line where my underwear began and it was hard not to remember Willa kissing there, kissing all over me—my nearest hand went into her hair unbidden, and I didn’t know if I was going to push her away or pull her closer.
“You okay?” she whispered, the words brushing against me.
“It’s just,” I began, my voice raw, and I saw Mark behind her, stirring in his seat in case I called this off. Christa looked at me, eyes full of concern—but I could see her breasts pushing forward in her dress and feel the heat of her breath on me. “It’s been awhile is all.”
“I can go slow.”
I rolled my lips between my teeth, and then decided to be honest. “I’d rather you go faster.”
She grinned. “Me too.”
She took another salacious lick from the waistband of my underwear up to the bottom of my breast and then over it, circling my nipple, before standing up to shimmy out of her clothes.
Her bra was the same color as the dress had been, her underwear just a little darker, and as I put my hands out for her she returned to the bed, pressing me back down.
Everything my hands had been denied earlier they now sought out—the smooth skin of her back, the softness of her breasts—her bra lasted only moments until it was off, revealing areolas the same sweet peach as her dress had been.
I went for one with my mouth as her knee slid between my legs.
Without thinking I ground against it, rocking myself against her as I sucked, nuzzling my face against her skin, loving the way her breath caught every time my tongue swiped across her nipples.
“Oh—that’s so good,” she purred, then turned her head in Mark’s direction. “Are you listening, Thor?”
“Am I allowed to say if I am?” he asked in a rumble.
She laughed and pressed lower into me, so that we were skin to skin in so many places.
Her hands found the waistline of my underwear and pushed—I wriggled to help her free me, then watched her free herself.
She was sporting a Brazilian—I’d never seen someone with one in real life. “Come here,” I whispered.
She knelt on the bed beside me, presenting herself. I leaned up on one arm to trace a curved path down her body, over her breast, her stomach, her hips, stroking lower—
“Here,” she said, catching my hand and bringing it up again, taking the first two fingers into her mouth to get them wet. “Go.” She spread her knees a little wider and I knew what she meant.
I didn’t waste any of the precious fluid—I gently reached between her thighs while slicked with her spit, touching her soft folds.
From where I was on the bed I could see the pink hood of her clit, tucked neatly between her labia majora.
I worked my fingers back slowly, concentrating on the sensations for me and her, knowing she was watching me with her wide-eyes—and then I found the entrance of her pussy.
She was already wet, and I wanted nothing more than to push a finger inside.
“Do it,” she whispered, so I did, sliding a finger up, feeling the hot walls close in, soft and supple. She made a pleased sound, and I pushed in another, starting to stroke inside her the way Willa had sometimes stroked in me and, rubbing forward, and she made a much lower moan.