A Touch of Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page B

ever.
    Then he goes in, thumbs teasing apart the mat of my pubic hair, and then parting my sex lips to expose my clit. As he blows lightly on it, I grab for his hair again.
    I want your mouth, you gorgeous angel of sexy naughtiness. You beautiful man from out of nowhere, give me head.
    Without a moment’s pause, he extends his tongue and gives me long, insolent savoring lick.
    I howl, bucking up from my supporting pillow and crushing myself against his mouth with all the strength in my body and some I never even had before.
    “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants against my flesh, and then with a noise like a growl he gives me a merciless, stringent tongue-lashing.
    I come immediately, high and hard, but that doesn’t stop him from assailing me, pressing me to greater heights. Somehow, he manages to hook his arm and hand around my thigh in devilish cleverness so he can create tension against the flat of my belly and increase the intensity of the contact.
    Orgasms explode in my loins and in my head like a syncopated chain of beautiful fireworks. I shout and moan and curse and babble. I don’t care if the entire avenue hears me, or even if someone calls the police. My only reality is the sublime pleasure of Patrick’s mouth. His tongue is warm and flexible, plaguing me in a dozen different strokes and speeds, flattening to press, curling to a point to dab and jab and tantalize. As he slides it down to the entrance to my vagina, his clever thumb slips onto my clitoris to take its place.
    And all the time his bright hair gleams in the low light, an older gold somehow this afternoon, more natural and weathered than the dazzling gilt of yesterday.
    Even as I lurch joyfully into another orgasm, the mysterious changes sink into my subconscious, ready to be taken out in cooler moments and pondered upon.
    I come again, and still he tantalizes and teases and compels me to yet more pleasure. I grab at him and I swear I must be hurting him the way I gouge his scalp and tug at that beautiful hair of his. But eventually, as exquisite as the sensations are, I know I’m being greedy.
    “Enough. I think I’m going to pass out. It’s your turn.”
    He stills his tongue upon me, and for five long seconds, he just stays there, mouth against my sex. Then he gives me one last gentle, cherishing kiss and withdraws. Through bleary eyes, I watch him sit up, still between my stretched out legs. His lips are gleaming from me, and his eyes are strange and stormy. They flash dark with sudden anger, and then his whole body stiffens as if a titanic battle for control is going on within it. Then he loosens again, and his face is sadder somehow than cross.
    What have I said? What have I done or not done? Hauling myself up, pushing with my elbows, I too sit up and tuck my knees beside me. The golden glow of moments ago is fizzing away like a pill in a glass. Patrick looks torn, as if distraught but trying to hide it. I don’t know what to do except reach out and touch him, hoping that contact and pleasure can give him solace, just as the way he pleasures me is a cure for all my ills.
    He still feels rigid with tension, and for the first time, he looks away from me as if he can’t face me. He’s never done that before. His gaze has always been open and either gentle or challenging.
    What the hell is the matter with him?
    I grab a fold of the fine worsted cloth of his waistcoat, and try to pull him towards me. When he won’t come, I move to him, putting my arms around him, cupping his warm cheek with my palm, attempting to turn his face to mine for a kiss.
    Horrible doubts grind like rusty wheels in my innards. What is it? The dreadful engine of speculation coughs into life. What if he has some perverse quirk for wringing pleasure out of unsuspecting older women? What if it’s a power trip of some kind? Get a woman under his control, and then bamboozle her with orgasms just because he can, yet with no actual desire whatsoever to fuck her? It doesn’t seem