Martine took two steps forward, set her palms on his chest, and their gazes fastened. “Is it now that we play your Blind Man’s game?”
“Have you been thinking about it all evening?” Harry asked, using the back of a hand to swipe the moisture from his cheek.
“Austen said you bluff in poker. I did not know this term. But it is like a dare, non?”
“I take it you’ve never played Blind Man’s Bluff?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Harry explained the game to her between kisses and stripping off her skirt, thong, and bra, leaving her blouse on but loosened to bare her breasts. When they were both hot and bothered, he retrieved a tie from the closet and wrapped the red strip of silk around her palm.
“Tie it around my eyes,” he ordered.
When she had him good and truly trussed, he swung into a horizontal position, rested his head in his hands, and said, “Rule number one. You get to do anything you want. Have anything you want. Stop anytime you want. It’s all about you. The goal of the game is to identify whatever you’re holding or touching or kissing.”
“And rule number two?”
“I get a turn after you.”
A miniscule part of her yearned to forget all the lessons she’d learned about men, to erase the past and believe in him. The other part, the part that ruled, called her the worst sort of mark.
She sat on her haunches, all too conscious of Harry naked on the bed, of her nudity, and the ugly scars on her back.
“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Martine,” Harry said, and he turned his head on the pillow, easily pinpointing her direction despite the blindfold. “Tell me what you want.”
Working up the courage to answer, she inhaled the aromas of the candles, a cleansing ginseng fragrance, and on her exhale she skittered closer and brushed her lips on the cusp of his shoulder. Admiring his bulging muscles, the sharp indentation midarm to his elbow, she ran her fingers down his warm flesh. The nuns avoided all mention of body parts and workings, and she’d reached adulthood aware mainly of how coupling occurred.
“What is this muscle, Harry?” She squeezed the thickest part of his arm.
For a few seconds he didn’t answer, and her stomach went all jittery.
“That’s the deltoid. Feels good when you do that.”
“You have beautiful shoulders, strong, and I can see where each muscle begins and ends.” She bent to kiss a taut spot near the crook of his neck. “And this?” Her exhale sifted a lock of warm brown hair curling around a vein that went all the way to his ear. Unable to resist she traced the throbbing vessel, nuzzling the damp flesh cording his throat.
“Trapezius,” he replied, his voice low and husky.
“I know these,” she said, placing her palms flat on his chest. “Pectorals. Men are so different here from women.”
“Praise the Lord almighty,” Harry muttered.
“So strong,” she murmured, fingering a ridged groove of flesh extending from the middle of his torso. “This is the six-pack, non? Three here and three on the other side. This one lower than its mate.”
On impulse she leaned over and used the tip of her tongue to trace each grove. Harry intoxicated her senses. She grew drunk on his now familiar Harry fragrance—soap, the CK aftershave she’d discovered in the bathroom, and a spiciness all his own. Her ears filled with his each rasped inhale, each muffled grunt, and the occasional hiss when she hit a sensitive spot.
Her tongue absorbed the slight musk and salt in the taste of him, and she closed her eyes to savor his flavor and smell, hoping she’d always be able to conjure the aroma after their year ended. She laid her cheek to his belly and ran a finger around the rim of his navel. A film of sweat coated his skin there, making the ridges outlining his six-pack glisten.
Flesh slapped on flesh, and Martine angled her head to his sex, all swollen and red, the head shiny and coated with clear moisture. She sniffed and discovered his musky spiciness came from here, from his cock.
“And this?” She brushed her index finger over the crown. “What is this called?”
“The glans,” he growled. “Martine, I’m dying here.”
She glanced up. His jaw clenched, his nostrils widened, he seemed to be grinding his teeth, and he had the covers clenched so tightly between his fingers she expected the cotton to shred any moment. Martine lifted her cheek off his groin, but his palm pressed her back down.
“Don’t stop, sugar. If you have any mercy in you, don’t stop.” The slight pressure he exerted on her head receded. “Maybe pick up the pace a tad? A giant step tad?”
“St. Pete is unhappy?”
“St. Pete’s insanely happy. Aching for you to touch him, lick him.”
“Like so?” She licked across the swollen head. “So smooth.” Curiosity spiked her veins and directed her actions; Martine slid down the mattress and crossed over his thigh to settle between his spread legs. Cupping his sac in both hands, she said, “These are the testicles. The British say bollocks, the Yanks, balls. The sperm are stored here, non?” She squeezed the taut testicles;, he grunted, and his hips came off the bed.
“Gentle there, Martine. Gentle,” he commanded.
Martine let go of his flesh, and her gaze flew to him.
Harry had risen to his forearms, the tie no longer a blindfold but hanging loosely around his neck, and he wore a grimace, one eye shut, his mouth twisted.
All at once she understood. “I am sorry, Harry. The balls are the things that hurt when men are kicked there. I thought it was this.” She pointed to his cock. “I did what you did to me here.” She touched her breast. “I liked it.”
His lips twitched into a half smile; he lifted his chin, pointing at his genitals. “Kiss them better.”
“But, but…”
“Soft kisses, no hands,” he coaxed. “If you stop now, it would be the most cruel and unusual punishment in the universe.”
Not completely convinced, Martine barely touched her lips to one side of his sac and then the other.
“Martine?”
Her nose brushed the base of his cock when she shifted to peep at him.
“St. Pete loves to be squeezed. C’mere.”
She skittered along the mattress, and he shifted to his side so they faced each other on the same pillow. Cradling one of her hands between his, he drew their twined limbs down their bodies and curled her hand around his cock and then cupped his palms on her shoulders. Manacling her gaze, he said, “Go ahead. Squeeze.”
St. Pete throbbed, heated, and engorged as her grip tightened, and Martine gasped and looked down. The vision brought to mind all the nuns’ warnings of the sins of carnality and a delicious, devilish shiver swelled her nipples to peaks, sent cream trickling down the folds of her sex.
“Touch the glans,” he ordered, his voice coarse and rough and low.
“Here,” she whispered, running her finger over the glistening bulbous head, and glanced up for his approval.
“There,” he agreed. Then he covered her fingers with his again and slid their joined hands down the length of his cock. “Like this.” He positioned her so her thumb rubbed the apex of the glans as she stroked him up and down.
Harry leaned his forehead on hers, his wine-scented breath fanned her upper lip, and the aching between her thighs flared and blazed. “Harry,” she muttered. “How does the game end?”