Kitabı oku: «Mills and Boon Christmas Joy Collection», sayfa 28

He’d been so insistent. After being concerned about her welfare last night and today, finally he hadn’t wanted to stop long enough to pull back the covers. And yet now…

She pushed higher. “Bishop, what’s the matter? They’re in the drawer, right there beside you.”

Another few seconds ticked by before he rolled onto his side away from her. Laura watched the long powerful line of his silhouette moving, heard the drawer slide open then his grunt.

She sat up a little. “What’s wrong?”

“Condoms. They’re there. A whole pack.”

Grinning, she brushed her lips against his shoulder. “We don’t have to use them all in one night.”

“I just…” He shrugged and exhaled. “Never mind.” She heard him remove one before he turned back. Once again his mouth slanted over hers and instantly any chill was gone, replaced by the heat he so effortlessly brought out in her. The embrace intensified, the kiss deepened and the need to join in the most fundamental way grew again. When her palm filed down the hard trunk of his thigh, his own hand mimicked her move, curving down her spine then sliding between her legs. He began to stroke her, tease her, and as he kissed her thoroughly she knew this night wouldn’t end without that ticking bomb deep inside of her exploding at least once.

Teetering on the edge, she murmured against his lips, “I love when you kiss me. Anywhere. Everywhere.”

As if she’d given the golden command, he began moving down, his mouth roaming, suctioning here and there, over her ribs, her belly, around the ticklish dip of her navel. And every kiss took her that much higher, drew her that much nearer. Had her falling that much more in love.

In the dark recesses of his mind, Bishop knew he’d lost the plot. When he’d found a box of sealed condoms in the drawer where he’d always kept them, he’d sent up a prayer of thanks then had plowed on. He’d expected Laura to have ditched the contraceptives long ago, but like the wedding photo and rings, she’d left them alone. Because she couldn’t bear to touch them? Because she’d secretly wished for her husband back?

Hell, at this precise moment in time, he was way too pumped to wonder.

He’d succumbed to Laura’s wiles and, God help him, he couldn’t regret it. Particularly now as his mouth trailed an unerring course over her flat stomach and lower. When he reached those soft, moist curls, his brain stopped working altogether.

While her hips slowly rotated, he nuzzled down. After dropping a few barely there kisses on her inner thighs, he got more comfortable and, using his fingers and his tongue, exposed more of her. Her sigh of pure pleasure heightened his own, and as he made love to her with his mouth—with everything he was or had ever been—he understood that this time was beyond compare. Because it was forbidden? Or because they’d denied each other for too long? He only knew she’d never tasted sweeter and his desire for her had never been stronger.

It seemed like he’d only begun when he sensed the intensity building inside of her. Wanting to give her an experience without equal, he held her hips while his mouth covered her and he did what he knew she liked best. Her spine pushed down and she trembled, barely noticeably at first. But as the rolls of energy grew, she began to shudder and moan.

He stayed with her, adoring her fingers bunched in his hair and the series of contractions that urged him not to stop. When she was still floating down, he moved away just enough to open that foil wrapper and rolled down their protection. When he joined her again, her eyes were closed, her head was slanted to one side and a fan of fair hair was flung over her face. Sighing, she clung to him as he eased in.

With one arm curled over her head, he gazed down at her face, more beautiful than any woman’s alive. As he moved above her, found just the right rhythm, he wanted to tell himself to go slow. Make this last. Tomorrow he might not be welcome in Laura’s life much less her bed.

As the heat of the inferno licking through his veins intensified, so too did his pace. Still, as his lips traced down her cheek and he stole another penetrating kiss, he was certain he could hold out. This was simply too good to let go yet. But then she quieted and a heartbeat later bucked beneath him, peaking again and riding another orgasmic curl. The push was too much.

Murmuring her name, concentrating on the delicious burn and how glorious she felt surrounding him, he drove in again and jumped off into the firestorm that consumed him inside and out. As white-hot flames swirled though him, Bishop held on tighter and for the first time hoped she didn’t remember too soon.

The next morning Bishop sat on the eastern porch, gazing blindly out over the hills, listening to the early morning laughter of kookaburras and wondering what the hell had possessed him last night.

What had he been thinking? Sleeping with Laura once had been a bad idea. Sleeping with her again, and again, had to be moronic. Sure, it’d felt great. Unbelievably fantastic! But that wouldn’t save him when her memory returned and she demanded to know why he’d taken advantage of the situation like he had. Never mind that she’d as good as drugged him with her words and her touches and her smiles. When the real Laura returned she wouldn’t listen to a word of it. That Laura wasn’t in love.

No more than he was.

Nothing could obliterate the words they’d exchanged during their roughest patch. The things they’d said to each other would crush the worthiest of loves. It had certainly killed his.

But love aside, clearly he still had feelings for her. He was still smitten by her scent, her voice, the cute sway of her hips whenever she walked. Laura affected him at his most basic primal level. Even when he’d sworn he never wanted to clap eyes on her again, he’d been on the verge of forcing her to hush by kissing her senseless. There’d been a time after they’d split when he thought he never wanted to sleep with another woman, the tough times had affected him that much. Truth was, until last night, he hadn’t broken the drought. Although, he’d been heading that way with Annabelle.

His elbow on the outside chair armrest, he held his brow and rubbed his temple.

What was he going to do about that? He and Annabelle weren’t in a relationship, as such. They’d seen each other a few times. They seemed to like the same things, got each other’s humor and respected each other’s space. But after what had happened between him and Laura last night…

His hand dropping from his brow, he blew out a breath.

Clearly, he wasn’t anywhere near ready to even think about getting involved with Annabelle or any other woman.

Shifting his hip, he dug the cell out of his back pocket. A moment later the recipient’s soft voice drifted down the line.

He straightened in his chair. “Annabelle. It’s Samuel.”

“Sam? I was hoping you’d phone this weekend. You’ve been busy?”

“You could say that.”

As usual, she was understanding. “There’s still most of Sunday left.”

He cursed himself. He’d never felt more like a heel, but there was no way around it.

“Look, this is probably not a conversation we should have over the phone. But…” His gaze wandered over the bush, the gazebo, the setting that used to be so much a part of his life and seemed to be again for however long. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

“Something’s wrong?”

“I told you I’d been married.”

“Yes…you said it ended badly.”

“Thing is, Laura, my ex, had an accident Friday.”

He imagined Annabelle’s long dark lashes batting as she took that in and then her eyes widening as she made a likely assumption. “You’re with her now?”

“I took her home from the hospital.”

“You’re…patching things up?”

“It’s complicated.” He rubbed his brow. Really, really complicated.

“But you’re together?” Her tone was less fragile now.

He answered as honestly as he could. In a sense… “Yes.”

He waited as Annabelle no doubt composed herself. But she sounded calm when she spoke. Understanding, even. She’d make someone a great wife someday.

“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”

“Except, I’m sorry.”

“Can I ask you not to lose my number, you know, in case things don’t work out?”

“Sure. I’ll do that.”

But as he hung up, Bishop knew he wouldn’t contact Annabelle again. Not because things would work out between him and Laura; he was damn close to certain it wouldn’t. But because if they saw each other again, Annabelle would always wonder whether he was thinking about his ex. If he were in her position he might do the same.

Besides, Annabelle deserved someone who could offer her a future and Bishop hadn’t been after commitment even before Friday’s incident.

And so another short chapter in his life was closed, while the case of the amnesiac ex was still wide-open.

As he slotted the phone away, his nose picked up on an aroma that came from the kitchen. Butter melting in a pan.

It was Sunday. Tradition decreed they have brunch on this porch. Hash browns and bacon, pancakes and maple syrup, or their old favorite, eggs Benedict? No matter which, from experience he knew the meal would be mouth-watering.

Bishop moved inside, thinking how easy it’d be to slip back into this lifestyle…if Laura remained this Laura and they could work their issues out. But it was dangerous to think that way. Yes, he’d had the best sex ever last night with his ex. He knew no complaints would be coming from her quarter. But relationships were about a whole lot more than physical attraction and sexual gratification. If he’d understood that over two years ago, he’d have held off asking Laura to marry him.

He hated to admit it, but snooty Grace was right. He’d fallen in love so hard and so fast he hadn’t spared the time to think things through. Amazing, given his stellar track record regarding decision making.

He moved down the hall and as that delicious hot butter smell grew, so did his concern.

In sleeping with Laura last night he’d set a precedent. This afternoon they were off to Sydney, and she would expect them to make love again tonight. And he couldn’t deny that he wanted to do just that. More to the point, if she didn’t get her memory back between now and then, he knew that he would.

Seven

“Sam Bishop? Is that you?”

In response to the male voice at their backs, Laura pulled up at the same time Bishop swung around. A smile breaking on his face, Bishop offered his hand to the jovial-looking man striding up.

“Robert Harrington.” Bishop shook the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

Mr. Harrington, a rotund man in an extralarge dinner suit, arched a wry brow. “Enjoying the ballet, son?”

Bishop tugged an ear. “It’s…lively.”

The man chuckled as if to say he understood. Obviously, Robert Harrington wasn’t a Swan Lake fan, either.

Earlier, on the heels of their Sunday morning eggs Benedict tradition, she and Bishop had journeyed to Sydney and, after strolling around the Rocks, one of Sydney’s most historic harbor-side suburbs, had checked into their Darling Harbor residence, a five-star-hotel three-bedroom penthouse Bishop used if business kept him in the city during the week. Soaking up the sunshine on the balcony and watching the boat activity on the sparkling blue waters below had absorbed the rest of their lazy afternoon. They’d arrived at the Opera House with barely enough time to be seated. Five minutes ago they’d joined the rest of the Opera Theater’s glittering crowd to partake of refreshments during intermission.

Their seats could have been better, but Laura wouldn’t complain. It was the thrill of the experience she adored. Her mother had introduced her to the theater, in all its guises, at an early age. She’d dreamed of perfecting pointe work and pirouettes and one day starring in the Australian Ballet. But professional ballerinas were superb athletes; heart conditions, even mild ones, weren’t the norm. So Laura, along with Grace on occasion, had been content to enjoy a number of magical performances as enthusiastic spectators.

Laura wished Bishop shared her love of the art form, but she was only grateful he hadn’t bleated on about coming along; a lot of men might suggest their wives take a friend while they chilled out at a football match or poker game. But Bishop was one of the most supportive people she’d ever known.

That’s why she was certain they could work out this difference regarding how to start their family. When he truly understood how important having her own child was to her—when he evaluated the risks from a less, well, paranoid point of view—he would come around. He’d support her, as he always had. This time next year, they might even be singing lullabies to their firstborn.

Boy or girl, she’d be beyond happy with either. Or both.

Laura put those thoughts aside as she smiled a greeting at this middle-aged couple. Wherever they went, it seemed Bishop bumped into someone he knew. Why should a night at the Opera House be any different?

“You haven’t met my wife.” Robert Harrington turned to a lithe, graceful-looking woman. “Shontelle, this is Samuel Bishop. We had business dealings a year back.”

“Pleased to meet you, Samuel.” Shontelle’s pearl-and-diamond necklace sparkled under the lights as the chattering crowd wove around them. Laura waited. Bishop was usually prompt with introductions but, for once, he missed a beat.

Taking the initiative, she introduced herself. “Pleased to meet you, Robert, Shontelle. I’m Laura.”

While Shontelle returned the greeting, Robert scratched his receding hairline. “Laura… Sam, wasn’t that your wife’s name?”

Her cheeks pinking up, Shontelle delivered her husband’s ribs a silencing nudge.

But Laura only laughed. “Not was. Is.”

Robert’s eyebrows shot up and his smile returned. “Well, that’s great.” He clapped Bishop’s tuxedo-clad shoulder heartily. “Great to see you together.”

The two couples bantered on a few minutes more, then went their separate ways. She and Bishop found a relatively quiet corner in the bustling room, away from the heart of the glitter and constant clink of glasses.

Laura spoke over the rim of her champagne flute before she sipped. “That was strange.”

“Strange?”

She imitated Robert Harrington’s baritone. “Wasn’t that your wife’s name? Didn’t you think that was odd?”

Bishop raised his glass in a salute. “Guess we should get out more often.”

“You know what else is strange? I’ve lost weight. I’ve been the same weight for years but now this dress is big on me.”

“It looks beautiful on you. You probably just haven’t worn it for a while.”

She examined the fall of her red evening dress. The bodice was highlighted by black lace inlays and the back decorated with multiple ribbon crisscross ties, which she’d drawn tightly to compensate for her leaner figure.

“I wore it a month ago to that business dinner in Melbourne, remember?”

His chin lifted the barest amount. She could have sworn his eyes narrowed as his gaze roamed her face.

“What else do you remember?”

He hadn’t finished the sentence before that northern footbridge flashed to mind. Then she remembered the hospital, thinking that she was pregnant. She remembered the doctor, the test, the tears—

Laura sucked back a quick breath then, blinking into her champagne flute, frowned.

There hadn’t been any tears. She’d been disappointed that the pregnancy test was negative, but also grateful she hadn’t risked a baby’s well-being when she’d taken her tumble. She remembered being so happy to see her husband and wondering at his odd behavior…that Bishop hadn’t come and embraced her straight away. It had taken a little while for him to thaw, even when they’d gotten home. But last night, he’d been as loving as ever.

So why this gnawing, niggling feeling at the back of her brain all of a sudden? A wavering sense that something, somewhere, between them was missing? Robert Harrington’s curious comment hadn’t helped.

Wasn’t that your wife’s name?

“Laura, are you okay?”

Bishop’s deep voice hauled her back. He was looking at her intently, his brows drawn. And the bell was ringing, calling them back to their seats. Feeling off balance, she slid her flute onto a nearby ledge.

Was she okay?

Willing the faint dizziness away, she pinned up her smile. “Absolutely fine. I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of the ballet.”

As they moved back through the crowd, the bell ringing low and persistent, Bishop threaded his jacketed arm through hers. She always felt so proud walking beside him. People noticed her husband—not only his movie star looks, but that unconscious quality that radiated off him like crackling heat off a fire…a vibrant warmth that was inviting and yet also potentially dangerous. Instinct told people you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Samuel Bishop. Not that they would ever be on opposing sides. Their difference of opinion on how to start a family didn’t count. As she’d told Grace, they’d work that out.

“You didn’t have much for dinner,” he said as they climbed the carpeted stairs behind the slow-shifting throng. “We’ll order some supper when we get in.”

One part of her wanted to go straight back to the apartment, make love and then order a cheese platter and a fruity wine to savor throughout the night. Another part wanted to eke out as much of this dazzling evening as she could. Bishop was right. They did need to get out more.

“Let’s walk back to the apartment,” she suggested as they arrived at their gate. “We can stop for a bite on the way.”

He flicked a suspect glance at her red high heels. “In those shoes?”

Teasing, she bumped her hip to his. “These shoes deserve to be shown off.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, the bell stopped ringing and the theater lights dimmed. “Then shown off they shall be.”

Laura didn’t want to tell Bishop she hadn’t remembered buying the shoes…like that handbag…like forgetting she’d slipped off her rings before Grace had driven her to hospital. In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have mentioned she thought she’d lost weight. But they were trivial bits and pieces that would filter back in time. And when they did, no doubt this annoying niggling—that there’s something missing feeling—would up and fly away.

After the curtain had dropped and thunderous applause faded, he and Laura left the theater to stroll down the many Opera House steps, then along the boardwalk.

The night was mild and still bubbling with life—buskers strumming, tourists milling, night owls taking advantage of the round-the-clock restaurants. Laura was praising the prima ballerina’s performance in the last act when Bishop’s step slowed out front of an open-air café. Cozy tables dotted a timber deck that overlooked dark harbor waters awash with milky ribbons of moonlight. The coffee smelled out-of-this-world good.

“How are the heels holding up?” he asked. “Your feet need a rest?”

“I vote chocolate cheesecake.”

His gaze flicked from the dessert display window to her knowing eyes, and he laughed softly. She was well aware of his sweet tooth and he was aware of hers.

“With two scoops of ice cream?” he suggested.

Her hand in his, she tugged him toward the tables. “Done.”

He pulled out a chair for her by a roped railing, and a waitress took their orders.

“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?” Laura asked casually as she skimmed the ballet’s keepsake program for the tenth time. But despite the casual tone, Bishop knew she was already wishing the morning away. He’d worked long hours when they’d been married. Still did. She’d always dreaded Monday mornings when he left her to travel to his office in the city.

“Actually, I’m having a couple of days off.”

Her eyes popped. “You never have time off.”

“I’m sure I had time off for our honeymoon.” A glorious week cruising the Greek islands. Santorini, Mykonos. The days had been brilliant. The nights were even better.

“Honeymoons are compulsory as far as vacations are concerned.” Her finger, trailing his left jacket sleeve, ended its journey by circling that shiny gold band. Her voice took on a note of doubt. “Are you sure the company’s not in any trouble?”

“If it were, I’d be chained to my desk.” He poured two glasses from the water carafe. “Trust me, Bishop Scaffolds is stronger than ever.”

The worry, pinching her brows, eased and she raised her water glass. “Well, then, here’s to a good long sleep in.”

While she sighed over how romantic the twinkling bridge looked with a full yellow moon crowning its arch, Bishop made a mental note to text Willis; the boss wouldn’t be in until at least Tuesday. From there he’d take each day as it came. Willis was more than competent to handle the day-to-day grind. As for the parties who were inquiring about purchasing the company…

Bishop flicked out his napkin as the cake arrived.

If the potential buyers were keen, they’d wait a few days.

They’d each enjoyed a first succulent taste of slow baked heaven when an elderly gentleman sporting an olive green beret presented himself with a flourishing bow at their table. He carried a battered easel. Two pencils sat balanced behind one ear.

“Would your wife care for a portrait?” the gentleman asked with a heavy French accent.

Bishop smiled dismissively. He liked his privacy.

“I don’t think—”

“She’d love one,” Laura piped up, before sucking chocolate sauce off her thumb and sitting straighter. “She’d love one of the both of us.”

Out the side of his mouth, Bishop countered, “Do you really feel like posing for half an hour?”

“No posing,” Frenchie said, flicking out his squeaky easel and wedging the legs into the planks. “Eat, talk. Reminisce. While I—” he whipped a pencil out with a magician’s finesse “—create.”

“I know what we can reminisce about.” Laura’s foot under the table curled around his pant leg. Bishop imagined her red painted toes as they slid up his calf. “Those amazing days we spent together sailing the Aegean.”

He angled slightly down. Out of sight, his hand caught her foot and he tickled her instep. “How about that unbelievable night on Naxos?”

“Please, please. Sit closer.” Frenchie feathered a pencil over the paper then stepped back to inspect his work so far. “This, I know, will be magnifique.”

Bishop reveled in the sweetness of chocolate and honey vanilla while listening to Laura’s recollections of their honeymoon…what they’d eaten and when, the people they’d met, their private dance on their private balcony in the moonlight that last night. Curious that she’d forgotten their divorce yet could remember every sensual detail of the time directly after their wedding as if it were yesterday. While the Mediterranean breeze and their lovemaking had kept them warm, she’d whispered in his ear and made him promise to take her on a cruise every year.

In between mouthfuls of cake, they talked and laughed. Bishop was so engrossed in their memories of Greece that he’d almost forgotten about the portrait until Frenchie set aside his pencil and announced, “It is done!”

Now, in the shadow of the Opera House’s enormous shells, he dragged himself back to the present and reached for his inside jacket pocket.

“How much do I owe?”

Frenchie waved a blasé hand. “Your choice.” Then, obviously proud, he pivoted the easel around.

Laura’s hands went to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh, Bishop, it’s perfect.”

Bishop had to agree. It captured not only their images but the gay atmosphere of the night as well as their obvious affection for each other. It was like looking back in time.

“It was a pleasure to work with a couple so very much in love.” Frenchie beamed.

Laura’s eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight. “Does it show?”

“Like a comet,” Frenchie enthused with a grand sweeping gesture, “illuminating a velvet night sky.”

Laura’s expression melted and Bishop slid out a large bill. Frenchie might be a bit of a poet, but his description wasn’t much of an exaggeration. That’s how they must appear to others tonight. Head-over-heels newlyweds in love. While they’d talked and shared desserts it had felt that way, too. He would’ve liked nothing better to have sat here, like this, all night.

By the time they finished up, it was late, so Bishop hailed a cab and her feet in their gorgeous heels got to rest.

As they crossed beneath the crystal chandelier of their hotel’s grand marble foyer, the efficient-looking concierge—a different man from the one earlier today—glanced up from checking something behind his desk. A big grin etched across his face and he fairly clicked his heels.

On their way to the lifts, Laura commented, “Very friendly staff they have here. You should tip that guy for that special welcome home.”

His step faltered the barest amount before he slid over a smile. “It’s because you look stunning tonight.” With the portrait in its cardboard sheath under his arm, Bishop stopped before the bank of lifts and thumbed a key. “You’re glowing.”

The lift arrived and she moved inside, smiling at his compliment, but deep down holding herself against a faint stab. Glowing was a term often bestowed upon pregnant women. Before that doctor at the hospital on Friday had informed her that she was mistaken—that she wasn’t pregnant—she’d actually felt as if she were glowing, even with that scrape and bump on her head.

But she could well be glowing tonight. They’d had a wonderful evening out, and with Bishop playing hooky from office duties tomorrow, there were many more hours of “wonderful” ahead.

As the car whirred up to the penthouse floor, she leaned on Bishop to balance as she eased off one four-inch heel then the other.

Bishop took note. “You’ve shown them off enough for one night?”

Performing, she twirled a shoe around her finger. “Oh, this is only the beginning.”

His brows hitched and pupils dilated until the crystalline blue of his eyes was near swallowed by black. When the metallic door slid open, she sashayed out ahead, sandals draped provocatively over one shoulder. She heard his footfalls on the marble tiles behind her.

“Guess you’re not tired,” he said.

“You guessed right.”

They entered the suite, a vast cream, black and crimson expanse, furnished with clean lines and minimalist finesse. She cast her shoes aside. Unable to hold back a moment longer, she coiled her arms around his neck and tipped her mouth up to meet his.

The ballet had kept her occupied earlier, but when they’d sat by those sparkling harbor waters tonight, eating their cake and reliving those fantastic few days abroad after their wedding, there were times Laura had needed to bunch her hand in her lap to divert the energy she’d felt pulling her toward him. It was as if she were hooked on an invisible line and desperately wanting to be wound in…to let him kiss her with all the heat of emotion both their hearts could give.

In the cab home, crossing the hotel foyer, riding the lift, she’d wanted to do exactly this…let him know with a touch of her hand, the stroke of her tongue, that she couldn’t live without him. With his breathing deepening now, his bristled chin grazing rhythmically against her cheek and his arms locked around her, the hot need inside of her only grew. Like a bulb without spring sunshine, she could survive without Bishop, but she would never know such true warmth.

Such real love.

That would never change. No matter what challenges they faced, they would always have this. An insatiable, natural need to be close.

When he grudgingly released her, her heart was pounding so hard that the vibration hummed through her body all the way to her fingers and toes. Her hand filed up through the back of his hair as she breathed in the glorious scent he left on his pillow each morning.

“Know what I want to do?”

“How many guesses do I get?” His voice was low and husky with desire, his eyes lidded with want.

“How many do you need?”

“I’ll take one.”

Her palms splayed over the broad ledge of his jacketed shoulders as she pressed in against him. “What if you’re wrong?”

A lazy grin hooked one side of his mouth. “I’m not wrong.”

“So I don’t need to give you a hint?”

That lazy grin widened. “Hints are always welcome.”

“Well, then, first we need to take this off.”

She dipped beneath his lapels and scooped the jacket off his shoulders. His lidded eyes holding hers, he tossed the coat aside. She assumed a speculative look as her palms ironed up the steamy front of his shirt.

“And that tie needs to go, too,” she decided, tugging the black length free from beneath its collar.

Bishop asked, “What about cuff links?”

“Cuff links are definitely out.”

He managed the links while she saw to his dress shirt studs. When the last button was released, her touch fanned the steely ruts of his naked abdomen then arced up through the dark, coarse hair on his chest. She let out a sigh as her nails trailed his pecs before catching the shirt and peeling the sleeves slowly down.

Anticipating the moment, she quivered inside as she lightly pressed her lips below the hollow of his throat; the pulse she found there matched the throb tripping a delicious beat at her core. A cord ran down one side of his tanned neck. When the tip of her tongue tasted a trail up the salty ridge, his erection, behind its zipper, grew and pushed against her belly. Growing warmer by the second, she blew a gentle stream of air against the trail her tongue had left.

“Do you remember what we were wearing on the balcony that night on the ship?”

His hands were kneading her behind, rotating her hips to fit against his as he attentively nipped the shell of her ear.