Read Interlude in Pearl Online
Authors: Emily Ryan-Davis
Interlude in Pearl (2 page)
“The things you have to say,” she began, fighting an overwhelming feeling of vulnerability. “Do they include goodbye?”
Long moments of silence stretched between them. Emma felt awkward with his erection in her hand. She released him. His mouth flattened but he didn’t protest. Instead, he grasped her nightgown and bunched the fabric in his fists until he held the length of it around her hips. Chill air stung her thighs and buttocks. She squeezed her legs together.
“Mickey?”
“Only if you decide they should,” he finally replied. “Sit down for me.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see that he’d backed her up to the end of the porch farthest from her bedroom window. A low rocking chair crouched behind her. If she sat, she would be able to reach his cock with her mouth.
He held her nightgown while she sat. The shock of cold wood on her bare bottom wrenched a gasp from her throat. She gripped the arms of the rocker and tensed to rise, but Mickey covered her hands with his and sank to his knees.
“You’ll warm the seat in a moment.” He squeezed her hands before prying them from the chair. “Lift your breasts for me.”
Her body responded of its own accord. Emma looked down to find herself cupping her breasts, hefting their weight and pushing the white globes together. Her nipples stood long and erect. Despite her trepidation for Mickey’s purpose, want coursed through her limbs.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. Leaning over her knees, he curled his tongue around the underside of her right nipple. Emma jolted. She raised her breast higher, offering it to his mouth, the violence of his earlier bites forgotten. Mickey kissed her fingers and drew away. “But not what I want.”
He stroked her knees apart and lifted them, draping her legs over the arms of the chair. Emma stared, shocked,
as
he grasped her hips and drew her exposed sex forward. Gooseflesh tightened her naked skin. Forgetting his earlier request, she covered her breasts and folded her shoulders back. The chair rocked, startling her, but Mickey caught her before her weight unbalanced it.
He opened his mouth at the inside of her knee, sucked lightly at her flesh. Thick fingers traced the crease where her thigh met her pelvis. The splayed position opened her and parted her lower lips, but he touched her anyway, the pad of his thumb stroking up and down the wet slit.
Emma’s breath hitched. His fingertips dipped low, circled her tight, eager gate, slipped away without delving inside. The tension and anticipation brought a small cry to her lips. She covered her mouth hastily, unwilling to draw attention to their illicit meeting. Her neighbors were far away and long asleep, but her niece inside—Lucy was no child, but she was no experienced woman either.
When Mickey lowered his head and curled his tongue around her clitoris, she bucked and whimpered. The heel of her palm dug into her cheek and she would be unsurprised to see bruises at either side of her mouth come morning. What she wouldn’t give for the freedom to unleash her cries, to lift herself for his mouth.
To shudder in his arms as he carried her to release, and later, relax in his arms as he carried her to bed.
The unexpected yearning filed down the edge of her desire. Emma turned her face away from the house and squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn’t think about after, about watching as he slipped off into the night. Instead, she would think about now. The flat of his tongue pressed over her, worked down to rim her entrance. He squeezed her thighs, tickling the soft flesh with the sleeves of his coat—he still wore his coat, his pants,
his
boots while she hardly had a scrap to call clothing anymore.
He licked inside and she stopped caring about his clothes. Emma touched his hair, curled her hand at the back of his neck and held him close. She tilted her hips as much as she dared, given her precarious position, and gasped, “Please!”
In response, he opened his mouth wide against her and sucked, drawing on her flesh with strong, powerful pulls. Emma writhed. The rocker groaned beneath her squirming weight. In the end, she offered little resistance. Mickey stabbed his tongue into her once more before affixing his lips around her clitoris. Thick fingers slipped into her passage, twisted, curled to stimulate a spot he’d discovered inside her body. She snatched the bunched fabric of her nightgown to her mouth and bit down, muffling a shriek as his fingertips struck deep and his tongue worked the point of her clitoris.
The touch of his tongue was too much. Emma dug her nails into the flexing muscle at the base of his neck. She tried to close her legs but his shoulders held them apart. One last lick tore a curse past her lips.
“Enough!” She begged, trembling, recoiling from the relentless pleasure.
Mickey raised his head and met her eyes. The hunger in his gaze startled her. It was…more than physical. Straightening, he palmed his erection and fitted the slick head against her fluttering entrance.
“Watch me,” he commanded.
Emma swallowed. Needing to touch him, she whispered, “Hold my hands.”
He notched his crown inside her. She
gasped,
surprised by the size of his cock no matter how many times she welcomed him into her body. Once positioned, he caught her hands in his warm, rough grasp and flexed his hips.
Deeper.
Emma’s gaze fixed on their point of joining. His cock stood proud and powerful, even framed by his clothes. The shaft seemed to grow and stretch on forever, he claimed her so slowly.
“I want a right to this,” he rasped. He kissed her lips when they parted in surprise. “I want a right to you.
To your bed.
To your hands in public.”
He squeezed her fingers for emphasis. Emma stared at him, stunned by his confession.
Unable to reply, for he forged into her a second time.
Her breath caught.
Mickey closed his eyes and leaned into her. His chest was warm against hers even through his shirt.
Emma broke his hold on her hands and embraced him. She buried her face against his throat. Groaning, he clutched her hips and unleashed his need. She rocked to meet his thrusts but he soon overcame her. Mickey shuddered as he came, hot and pulsing and…hers. Dazed by the idea, weak from her own powerful climax, she clung until he eased himself free.
Head bowed, he used the hem of her gown to gently clean the glistening evidence of their lovemaking.
Emma touched his jaw. “Do you still want it?
Now that you’ve spent?”
“You are the only woman I’ve sought since the first time you welcomed me,” he said, speaking slowly.
Emma’s chest tightened. “Mickey—”
“I know the same isn’t true of you,” he interrupted. “I didn’t expect it would be. But I’d like to make it true from here on.”
“What are you asking of me?” She touched his hair, the whisker-rough line of his jaw.
“Marriage?”
“I’m seeing a lot of marriage lately. I want it too.”
“This is because of the Carvers, isn’t it?” Emma bit her lip.
Mickey buttoned her gown across her breasts. Covering her seemed to unleash the cold his body had kept at bay. She started to shiver.
Mickey stood, drawing her up with him. He cradled her against his chest. Emma pressed her cheek to his heartbeat.
Above her head, he said, “This is because I don’t want to knock on your door anymore. I don’t want to wait ’til after dark. I want to love you properly and sit beside you at church. Emma—”
She cut him off, allowing herself a smile.
“When?
When will you marry me?”
“Right now,” he growled, his palm sliding over her bottom.
Emma laughed. “We’ll work on the date.”
Mickey cast a pained glance at the back door. His shoulders hunched against the cold.
“Soon.
The sooner the better.”
Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his waist and silently agreed.
Emily Ryan-Davis lives in Maryland with her loving husband and hateful guinea pig. On any given day, you can find her shopping (online or in stores), chatting/writing (the pair go hand in hand, can’t have one without the other), knitting (or buying yarn) or mocking her husband’s comic collection (while parenthetically wondering why comics haven’t upgraded to the ebook age; imagine all the extra space she’d have). Occasionally she picks up her mandolin, but mostly she just ignores it. You won’t find her paying attention to current events or the latest celebrity gossip because writing stories is her way of pretending it doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know how to use the television remote.
Emily’s favorite authors are Megan Hart, Terry
Pratchett
, JR Ward and Orson Scott Card. She loves sexy, magical, funny and intense stories, but especially enjoys immersing herself in the breathless intensity of a “with feeling” love scene. She can’t pick a genre (decision-making issues!) so writes in whatever setting calls to her at any given time: contemporary paranormal, historical western, medieval Europe, Gothic France—if she can imagine a strong emotional attraction existing in a particular place or time, chances are she’ll write the story.
The author welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
.
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