Ravish: The Awakening of Sleeping Beauty - By Cathy Yardley Page 0,2
herself to murmur “Oliver” and then, with unbelievable effort, parted her legs slightly. He took the cue. While his mouth continued to work its magic on her breasts, his hands roamed, stroking the sensitive skin on the underside of her breasts before smoothing down to the gentle flare of her hips. His breathing was faster, too, and she could feel the hot, velvet tip of his penis stroking her thigh. His movements got less calculated as he pulled away, panting raggedly, and slowly stroked a finger over the delicate skin of her inner thighs. She let out an almost inaudible moan when his fingers parted her curls and pressed into her, tickling past her clit and into the damp passage beyond. The pleasure of his penetration was indescribable, and her whole body felt as if it were clamped down, a pressure cooker waiting to be opened and relieved.
“Do you like this?” His voice was raspy but confident. “Tell me what you want, baby. Let me know what you like.”
Her tongue was heavy in her mouth. She tried to say something, but it came out as a low grunt.
He took that as a sound of approval, and he redoubled his efforts, alternating between licking at her breasts and her stomach while his fingers continued their slow and rhythmic penetration, in and out.
She wanted to spread her legs even farther, grinding her hips against the maddening sensation of his fingers. She wanted to reach for him, taste him, touch him. Pull him to her. She wanted to feel his hard, long cock replacing his hand, nudging against her pussy as he pressed inside her, filling her. She wanted to have the full experience, feel the dizzying release as a man pumped himself inside her hungry, aching need.
She struggled, but her muscles were completely unresponsive. She tried to say something. Her mouth locked in silence.
This is wrong, she realized. Something’s wrong.
The pounding of her heart now had nothing to do with Oliver’s ministrations. She felt fear, cold as an ice bath, drench her body.
This wasn’t stress, or fear of disappointing her family, or maidenly nerves. This wasn’t anything normal. She tried to make a noise, get Oliver to realize that there was something amiss, but he was too intent on pursuing his prize to notice.
She felt the warmth of his mouth withdraw as he stroked her legs, but she could no longer see him as her eyes drifted closed on their own, too heavy to fight against. She could smell her own arousal, mixed with the scents of the tropics. She could still hear the lullaby of the sea and her own slowing breathing. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak.
“This is it, baby,” he said triumphantly. “No turning back. Are you okay?”
Help me, she thought frantically. Help me, help me, help me…
A pause. “It’s all right, Rory. We’re in no rush. You want me to slow down? Stop for a minute? Just say the word.”
Not even a moan escaped her lips. Not even a sigh.
Finally she felt his body tense, the bed bowing slightly as he sat up abruptly. “Rory? Are you okay?”
She felt him get off the bed. He shook her slightly. “Rory? You’re scaring the hell out of me. Come on, Rory.” Another shake, harder this time. “Rory!”
He called her name, with increasing desperation, for another five minutes.
Rory never answered.
Chapter One
Dr. Jacob White pulled up to the large house in the Hamptons, pulling his Lexus to a smooth halt in the curving driveway. There was a crisp snap to the air. Fall was coming, and this place would go from the heights of the summer bustle to the dormancy of winter weather. Strange place to keep a patient, he thought as he rang the doorbell. Still, he wasn’t here for the nightlife. He was here to cure someone who couldn’t be cured.
In short, he was here to do his job.
A maid, dressed in a simple gray uniform, opened the door.
“I’m Doctor White,” he said. “Mrs. Jacquard is expecting me.”
She acknowledged this with a silent nod, then gestured for him to enter the house. The interior was sumptuous: dark wood paneling, lots of moldings. Everything expensive, tasteful, understated. He walked down a long corridor to a sitting room, where Mrs. Jacquard sat on a suede divan. She stood with effort. Although he would guess she was only in her sixties, she moved like someone much older. Her Chanel suit demurely projected old money and high society.