Page 131 of The Black Table
But as soon as I taste her, I know I can’t.
A soft, startled noise from her throat gives way to something low and liquid—a purr, a hum,Jesus God—and I surge forward, clasping the back of her head and pulling her into me, against me, clutching for her waist with my other hand. Our mouths break apart as I ease her down, just enough space for me to rasp the only word I can remember.
“Gwenna.”
Her eyes fly open, her hair fanning behind her as her head comes to rest on the plush surface of my father’s Persian carpet, and the juxtaposition, the sheer sight of her,here,like that, only spikes the frenzied feeling coursing through me.
“Kingston,” she whispers. “You…we…” Her throat bobs. “Is this okay?”
I know what she means.
Know what she’s asking.
But I won’t answer that.
“If it’s okay with you,” I reply.
She nods, and it’s all the signal I need. I sweep down and take her mouth again, hard.
She’s sweet and warm and suddenly I want all of her. Now.
I press deeper, kiss her even harder, but my hands feel clumsy, confused. For all my deftness with a weapon, all the grip strength and finger drills, I’m stymied by this—where to touch her, how and when and how fast. I skim a palm down her side, almost timid, as I kiss her deeper, pulse pounding, and she turns into my touch, pressing her breast into my hand.
God.
A choked sound escapes me. I’m half-hard already.
Instinct takes over. I skim my thumb over the peak of her breast, suck in a breath as it stiffens even through her sweater, then drag my touch lower, to the waistband of her skirt. At that, she flinches, and I pull back instantly, but when my vision clears enough to see her she’s shaking her head.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “You…surprised me.” She presses her lips together. “Don’t stop.”
I nod, and do what I do best.
I obey.
Or I try to.
Because there’s something. A thudding sound, pounding, a rhythm that isn’t the deafening sound of my heart.
My fingertips find her skin.
The sound picks up.
I don’t want to hear anything, don’t want it to be anything.
But my instincts are too sharp. My training won’t let me ignore it.
Unmistakable.
Footsteps.
I tense, only a little, and Gwenna pulls back, panic sketched all over her face.
She hears it too.
“Is that—” She glances at the door. “Your father?”
In a half second, I’m on my feet. Look left, right, point to thecorner with the fold-out screen—souvenir from Istanbul, a fruitless trip to investigate Arabic manuscripts.
