The Savage Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

going home with strange American men,” she said.
    “Am I strange?”
    He had meant it as a joke, but the smile slipped off her face. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have been speaking English since I was twelve, but the idiom is still sometimes difficult for me. I did not mean that you were strange. I meant only that—”
    “Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no. I know what you meant. I’m sorry, I . . . I was trying to be funny. I’m sorry.”
    “You do not think me easy that I am with you?”
    He shook his head. “I think you’re a goddess, Monica. I just can’t believe it.”
    “You make me feel beautiful,” she said. She turned in his arms and swept her hair away from her shoulders, exposing the back of her gown. “Will you . . . undo me?”
    “Huh? Oh, yes.”
    With trembling fingers he unhooked her gown. It fell, puddling at her feet.
    And just like that, she stood before him, wearing nothing but a lacy black thong and high heels.
    “Wow,” he said.
    She led him to the bed and pulled him down beside her. He loved the way her hair spilled over the pillow, the way her lips glinted in the low light. Paul ran his fingertips lightly across her belly, over the tops of her slender thighs. Her skin was cool, smooth, a rich coffee–and-cream color that made his fingers seem unnaturally white.
    She sucked in a breath, her back arching in pleasure, breasts straining toward him. She moaned softly. It was almost a purring sound.
    Paul leaned in to kiss her, her mouth finding his hungrily, and soon they were tangled up together, arms and legs intertwined, flesh to flesh. A burning flush of excitement ran down his entire body as his lips grazed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. He took one of her nipples between his teeth and another thrill shot through him to hear the gasp she made.
    He found the edge of her thong, his fingertips dipping under the fabric. Her hips rose slightly, allowing him the room to pull them down. She found his boxer shorts next, and tugged them down. He was beside her now, naked, hard, and hungry.
    His need for her overpowered him and he climbed between her legs. He grabbed her wrists and pushed them down into the pillow. He could feel great strength in her, and also that strength yielding to his pressure, accepting him, pulling him in.
    She closed her eyes with a sigh.
    He sank into her, closing his eyes as the warmth of her sex surrounded him. He began to move, her hips pressing against his, the two of them finding one another’s rhythm, pushing toward a release that was, for him, like going over a cliff.
    Paul drove into her, again and again, unable to stop. Being with her he’d found a need within himself that was almost feral. He’d been with maybe ten women in his life, probably fewer, but never had it been like this. Never had he felt himself so overwhelmed by a woman, so completely enthralled by her power.
    And then he felt his coming orgasm coiling inside him, demanding release. He opened his eyes and saw her staring back at him, nodding hungrily for him, urging him to push deeper. Paul went faster, drove harder. He felt himself growing close, too close, too soon, and slowed down again, backing away from his pleasure so that he could feel her body shudder.
    Then, her muscles tensed. She curled against him. Her gasps turned into little panting breaths, her lips forming a perfect O as her fingernails dug deep into his back.
    That was too much for him. He sped up again, his breaths quickening, growing harsh, and he buried himself as deeply as he could go within her, his whole body stiffening as he exploded.
    Afterwards, Paul held himself above her, like he was doing a push-up, smiling between breaths that felt like a hammer against his ribs. He kissed her, then sagged down beside her, sweaty and spent. She nuzzled against his chest, a fingernail running over his still-heaving chest like the tip of a switchblade.
    He sank into his pillow, laughing and gasping for breath at the same