Chapter Fifteen #2
against Catherine’s center.
Catherine moans, low and deep, and Rosalie smiles against her. She watches her face, memorizes her reactions. She holds Catherine’s
hip with her free hand, her other sinking down to tease against Catherine’s entrance. Catherine’s head jerks up as Rosalie
gently sucks, her eyes meeting Rosalie’s.
She wishes she had bothered with the dress now, so she could see Catherine fully bare. But still, the way her eyes, wide and
searching and blissful, watch Rosalie—the way her hand comes down to cover Rosalie’s on her hip, her other hand rising to
squeeze at her breast—the way she moans quietly, breathily, beautifully—she is utterly glorious.
Rosalie could stay like this forever, her fingers sinking into Catherine, lips and tongue moving delicately, Catherine grinding softly into her face.
To watch as the pleasure rises, feel the way Catherine’s muscles tighten, delight in the way she’s babbling nonsense, her other hand falling to hold Rosalie’s head, to urge her forward—
Catherine tenses, clenching around Rosalie’s fingers, a soft, keening whine escaping her lips as her hips press up against
Rosalie’s mouth. Rosalie keeps going, drawing as much pleasure as she can, relishing in Catherine’s moans and squeaks and
sighs, until the hand previously clenched into her hair gently shoves her face to the side.
She withdraws her fingers, laughing as she reaches up to wipe them on Catherine’s chemise. Watching Catherine slowly blink
her eyes open, she feels powerful, and vulnerable, and so close and connected to her all at once.
“My God,” Catherine whispers, her voice a little hoarse.
“Yeah?” Rosalie asks.
“Yeah,” Catherine says, reaching down to cup Rosalie’s shoulder. “Get up here.”
Rosalie smiles and rises on her lightly aching knees, leaning forward so Catherine can pull her into a deep, searching kiss.
Rosalie relishes the feeling, squirming there between Catherine’s legs, suddenly aware of her own aching want, and the fact
that there’s a bed not feet away.
“Shall we move somewhere more comfortable?” Rosalie suggests as Catherine breaks from her mouth, dragging kisses up Rosalie’s
jaw.
“Only once you’re naked,” she whispers, her hands gliding up Rosalie’s back to undo the laces of her dress. “Arms up.”
Rosalie laughs and raises her arms, allowing Catherine to pull her dress and petticoat up and over her head. It’s a little awkward with Rosalie still kneeling on the floor, but the hum of triumph Catherine lets out when they finally make it over Rosalie’s hair is so damn endearing.
“Fair’s fair,” she says, pulling Catherine forward so she can undo the laces of her dress and gather the bunched fabric.
Catherine raises her hips and together they make quick work of her dress and petticoat, leaving them both in stays and chemises,
tangled together on the settee. Catherine giggles, leaning in for another kiss. It’s a breathless few minutes of tugging at
laces, exchanging rough, open-mouthed kisses, before Rosalie manages to get Catherine’s stays off. She doesn’t even notice
Catherine’s beaten her to it until Catherine’s deft fingers are tripping up her stomach and coming to settle firm and lovely
on her breasts.
“Stand up,” Catherine says, a finger swiping over Rosalie’s nipple.
She groans. She doesn’t want to move anymore, just wants to stay here with Catherine’s hands on her all night.
“Now,” Catherine says firmly.
Rosalie’s not sure why she finds her clear, commanding tone so attractive, but it does something to her—warmth pooling in
her belly, between her thighs, tingling down to her toes.
She stands, looking down at Catherine, until Catherine follows suit. Rosalie watches her rise, tipping her head back to meet
her gaze as Catherine brushes her whole body against Rosalie’s on the way up.
Her fingers gather Rosalie’s shift as she goes, and Rosalie finds herself raising her arms until Catherine tugs off her chemise.
And then she’s completely naked there in the firelight. She feels herself flush, but she’s unashamed, watching Catherine take
her in, her lip between her teeth, a smile tugging at her mouth.
“You are beautiful,” she says, her hands skating down Rosalie’s back, bare fingers on bare skin. Rosalie shivers, and then groans
as Catherine’s hands come to cup her arse. “Jump,” she whispers.
Rosalie does as she’s told, gasping against Catherine’s mouth as she hops, wrapping her legs around Catherine’s hips. Catherine
holds on to her thighs and walks them confidently across the room until her knees hit the bed.
Rosalie kisses her messily, her core grinding into Catherine’s lower belly, body alight with her touch and taste and scent
and humming voice.
And then she’s falling softly to the mattress, staring up at the dark canopy.
“Scooch.”
Rosalie rises on her elbows just in time to watch Catherine peel off her own chemise. She’s a goddess. Ethereal and lithe
and staring at Rosalie rather incredulously.
“Move.”
Rosalie turns on the bed, scooting up until her head hits the down pillows. The comforter is soft against her back, the pillow
a cloud beneath her head, and Catherine is crawling toward her.
Rosalie could die happy right now.
Instead, Catherine stretches out over her, coming in for a consuming kiss as their naked bodies press together in delicious,
tortuous friction. Rosalie goes to wrap herself around Catherine, but she doesn’t stay still, sinking down Rosalie’s body
with a trail of kisses to her throat, and then her clavicles, and then her lips close over Rosalie’s nipple.
She doesn’t know if she’s ever made that sound before, rough and throaty and wild. But the feeling of Catherine around her, her hooded eyes looking up from Rosalie’s breast, her beautiful body stretched out against her—it’s almost too much.
But there isn’t time to revel, not when Catherine’s fingers are skating up her thigh, not when she’s sinking down lower to
return the favor.
“Tell me what to do,” Catherine whispers, pressing a firm kiss to Rosalie’s hip bone as her fingers stroke playfully at Rosalie’s
center.
Rosalie swallows hard, her mouth parched, overwhelmed with glorious sensation.
“Tell me,” Catherine insists.
She rather likes being bossed around, it turns out.
“Kiss me,” Rosalie rasps out. “At the top. Slow and firm.”
Catherine does, pressing long, slow kisses as her fingers tease at Rosalie’s entrance.
“Li—lick me,” Rosalie whispers, hips lifting off the bed as Catherine complies.
She’s never asked for what she wants before. Never had the chance. It’s wonderful, and terrifying, and utterly, sinfully,
fantastically hot.
“Your—your fingers,” she manages. “Curl—curl up and—ah!”
She slaps a hand over her mouth, looking down at Catherine, whose lips are quirked upward even as she continues to lap at
Rosalie, needing absolutely no further instruction.
Rosalie tries, she does, to keep giving suggestions, but the sensation is too great. The perfect curl of her fingers, the
languid pressure of Catherine’s tongue, the hand she presses onto Rosalie’s hips to keep them down as she strains up against
Catherine’s mouth—
That it’s Catherine making her feel this way.
Catherine teasing and testing and learning and thriving as every single part of Rosalie’s body tightens, as everything narrows to the sensation of Catherine’s face and fingers between her legs, the feel of the down comforter clenched in her hand, and the beat beat beating of her hammering heart until—
White-hot pleasure explodes from Rosalie’s center, her belly clenching, legs shaking. She’s seeing stars, and galaxies, and
waterfalls, and explosions, and she keeps her hand plastered to her mouth, just barely holding in a shout of ecstasy.
Slowly, after what might be hours, she comes back to her body, floating into herself on a cloud of pleasure, and wonder, and
Catherine wrapped around her.
She turns her face and meets Catherine’s very smug grin.
“You are far too good at that for a first time,” Rosalie says, her voice low and scratchy.
Catherine smirks, leaning in to kiss her. Rosalie can taste herself, can still taste Catherine between their mouths, and she
groans, reaching out to pull Catherine on top of her.
“There must be dirty books somewhere in your house.”
“I may have studied up, yes,” Catherine says, shrugging a little.
“You need absolutely no instruction,” Rosalie insists. “That was incredible.”
“I’m glad,” Catherine says, smiling at her, relaxed and comfortable and clearly more than a little proud of herself.
Which forces Rosalie to lift her still tingling arm and glide her hand down Catherine’s taut, smooth stomach.
“You don’t need to—”
But Catherine’s already squirming, already so ready and wet when Rosalie glides her fingers between her legs. She moves slowly,
watching Catherine’s face go slack, then tense.
“It’s wonderful with lips and tongue and teeth and fingers, but when I think of you at night, this is all I do,” Rosalie whispers, proud when Catherine gasps, her eyes opening to stare into Rosalie’s. “Have you ever touched yourself thinking about me?”
Catherine’s lips part on a pant as Rosalie changes the angle, remembering exactly which way made Catherine’s hips buck—just
like that—on the settee.
“Have you?”
“Yes,” Catherine breathes out.
“Tell me,” Rosalie says, slowing her fingers. It’s her turn to direct.
Catherine whines. “Keep going.”
Rosalie strokes her very slowly, nothing like the pace she knows Catherine needs. “Tell me.”
Catherine growls and bucks her hips into Rosalie’s hand. “I lie on my stomach, with my hand between my thighs. Sometimes I—I
read Fanny Hill first.”
“The first scene, or the second?”
Catherine forgets to keep scowling and Rosalie rewards her with a few quick strokes that make her groan.
“Both,” Catherine admits.
“You get yourself ready for imaginary me?” Rosalie presses, moving her fingers in circles.
Catherine’s whole body undulates against her.