Pool Man by Sabrina York Read Free Book Online Page A

seductive.
    This was not that.
    This was a real massage. Deep into my tissue, lazy and languid. He seemed to savor every stroke. I know I did.
    He explored each tendon, every muscle, digging into recalcitrant knots and working them until they released. It was like a long, decadent orgasm. Slow and easy.
    Relentlessly, he worked his way over my shoulders, my back, my flanks. He massaged my lower back and the globes of my ass and then lower to my thighs and calves. He avoided my feet completely which, for some reason, I found disappointing.
    When he shifted my legs apart, I merely moaned. I was boneless, without anchor, drifting in a fog.
    His finger, grazing my clit, should not have surprised me. Indeed, I registered the sensation from afar. There was nothing sexual in it. Nothing manic or frantic or lusty. It was a gentle caress, a teasing tangle. Arousal curled in me, but it was not a needy thing.
    Warmth grew gradually, like a twining vine.
    He shifted a bit and his fingers drifted over my entrance. I sighed and opened my legs wider and he slipped in. Again, unhurried, searching, gentle beyond any gentleness I had ever known. Relentlessly, he roused my passion. Seeking and finding that sensitive spot deep within. He explored it idly, one hand buried in me, while the other danced up and down my back, over my shoulders and over my ass.
    And then it changed. His movements became more deliberate, his teasing touch more wicked. I wiggled and sighed as he hit a particularly pleasurable spot. His palm slid to the small of my back and pressed, just a tiny bit, but I knew he was holding me still. For what, I did not know.
    He eased his fingers out and drew them up along the tender line of my most sensitive flesh until he reached the tighter hole that had never been breached.
    I was too lethargic, too curious, to protest.
    He waited, the tip of his finger, bathed in my cream and the sensuous oil, hovering there, kissing me there, giving me the opportunity to object. When I did not, he eased in. Not far. Not hard. He simply slipped in.
    Sensation—unfamiliar, lurid and insanely hot—whipped through me.
    I whimpered, an involuntary response.
    He pressed deeper and brought his other hand around and under me and began circling my clit. My poor clit, all swollen and aching. His touch was a relief, a rush.
    Unexpectedly, my passion erupted. Like the phoenix rising from the flames, it rose in a great cloud, crying and calling and wafting wings hewn of molten fire. My body seized, clenched, collapsed, incinerated in the intensity of the blaze.
    I don’t know when he eased out of me, don’t know when he came to lie by my side and hold me as I sobbed. Don’t know. Don’t remember. Don’t care.
    But when I reclaimed myself, my sanity, he was there, a warm blanket, staving off the shivers of bliss careening through me.
    He eased my hair from my cheek and pressed a kiss on my temple. “Are you…okay?” he asked, his voice soft, sweet.
    His body was molded to mine. I could feel his thrumming erection pressed against my hip. That was not soft and sweet in the slightest. But when I nudged it, encouraging him to remove the damn shorts and plunge it into me, he eased away.
    “Are you okay?” he repeated.
    “I’m fine,” I said, though my voice sounded drunk. Perhaps I was. Drunk on love. Or lust. Whatever.
    I pushed against him again, and again he retreated.
    I rolled over, arm on my forehead, and glared at him. “Aren’t you going to fuck me?” I asked, spreading my legs, just in case he wasn’t quite sure what I meant.
    His gaze scorched over my splayed body and his lips quirked. He bent down to kiss a nipple, suckle it, which was awesome, but then he met my gaze and said, “No.”
    No?
    My mind blanked.
    Something deep within me flinched.
    I was hungry for him.
    I was mad for him.
    Oh, yes, I’d just had the most devastating and transformative orgasm of my life, but it wasn’t over. We weren’t done yet. Not by a long