The Lover's Children

Chapter 81 – Solstice – Part 14

GEORGIE

“You want this Georgie? You really want this? You want me?”

“Yes. I want you. I've never wanted anyone more. Why would you doubt it?”

I think he'll smile at my words. He doesn't. Instead, he grows more intent, more intense. He fingers at

the hem of my sweater, I think trying to slip his hand under. Somehow, it snags and catches and after a

moment, with a quiet curse he simply tugs. “Take the damn thing off,” he says. “I want to see you. I

want to see all of you.”

Then he drops his face, rests his forehead on mine. “My apologies, Georgie. That was rude of me. I’m

not usually so incompetent with a woman.”

And just like that, my nerves evaporate. This man… This beautiful man… He wants me. He really

wants me.

He wants me so much that it’s making him clumsy.

“Why don’t we both get undressed, get into the bed, and take it from there?”

He laughs quietly. “Why don’t we do that. Instead of behaving like a pair of teenagers on their first

time.” He gestures to a door. “That’s the en-suite. Go get undressed. Have a wash or… whatever. You’ll

find a new toothbrush in the cabinet if you need it. I’ll use the other bathroom and join you in a few

minutes.” He gestures again, this time to the bed. “I put on the electric blanket. Make yourself

comfortable.” He kisses my forehead. “See you in a few minutes.”

*****

Borje’s bed is wide and warm and welcoming. Naked, I lie under the duvet…

… And wait.

It’s been hours since he left me.

The clock tells me it’s been three minutes.

The door opens and Borje enters, wearing a knee-length robe. Padding across the carpet, he sits

beside me, and soft-eyed, strokes my hair. Then turning away from me for a moment, he unbelts the

robe, slips it off…

… and for the blink-of-an-eye, I see him, my Lover.

His body… Long… Lean… Not heavily built, but finely drawn, like some anatomical illustration of male

beauty. Leonardo might have made such a sketch. Or Michelangelo. Spare, toned features, traced in

muscle and bone, the skin fine and smooth save for the tracery of silver hair over chest, forearms and

calves. And the tangle of hair, a shade or two darker, at his groin, nesting his penis, already half erect.

My mouth is dry again, but I turn back the cover, inviting him into his own bed, to bring that beautiful

body closer to me.

He slides between the sheets to lie beside me, he on his left side, me on my right. His fingers rest on

my cheek, mine on his breastbone.

Without a word exchanged, we move closer, his arms around me, mine around him. His kiss is sweet.

So sweet. A moan shudders from my throat, swallowed as our kiss deepens. Fingers wind into my hair

then shift to explore my skull, the curve of my neck, the sensitive area between my shoulders. The

fingers stroke, then dig in: short, blunt-ended nails pecking into skin and flesh. Pinpricks skitter down

my spine, tap-dancing along each vertebra and rib, setting me humming inside.

My hips buck and Borje rumbles, somewhere deep in his chest. Perhaps it is appreciation. Perhaps it is

laughter. Whichever, the hand which plays the dancing tune for my spine sweeps south, palming over

the curve of my waist, smoothing my hip, stroking my outer thigh.

My own hands wander his shoulders, over his rib cage, range over his body…

But as I pass over his navel, he takes my wrist in his hand. “No.”

I’m confused. “No?”

“No. Let me make love to you, Georgie. Don’t touch me. Not yet anyway.”

Confusion battles inside me. “You don’t want me to touch you?”

He speaks softly, but with laughter bubbling in the words. “I do want you to touch me, but just hold off a

while.” His smile is winsome, depreciating. “I want this to last more than five minutes. If you touch me

now…”

And I laugh. How can I not? “I get you…” I roll onto my back, arms splayed extravagantly. “Take me,

then, Sir Jaspar. Have your way with an innocent girl.”

He waggles brows... “I was hoping you’d say something like that.” … and moves to lie close alongside

me, his hard shaft pressed to my thigh. Smoothing over my stomach with a palm, he rests his head in

the crook of my neck. The palm sweeps over my spare breasts, plucking at first one nipple, then the

other. Then, shoving back the duvet… “I want to look at you…” … he props himself on an elbow, rising

above me, surveying me.

His eye and hand work together. Skimming my cheek with the backs of his fingers, he follows the line

of my cheekbone, then traces the hairline to stroke over an ear. Nipping at the lobe with fingernails, he

rumbles another laugh at my intake of breath, then continues his exploration through the curve of my

neck, across my shoulder, down the length of my arm, before sweeping up and in once more.

His silvered eyes are all but black, the pupils huge as he caresses the curve of a breast. “So delicate,”

he murmurs.

Heat spots at my cheeks. “I’m not very large, I’m afraid.”

Inclining his head, he frowns. “Sorry?”

“My breasts. I’m not too well-endowed. They’re not…”

He cuts me short. “They’re perfect. For you. You wouldn’t suit large breasts.”

I’m not sure what to make of the comment. Confused, I don’t reply. He chuckles. “Georgie, you have a

beautiful body. Long. Lithe…” He strokes over my belly… “… Sleek. Narrow-hipped…” His palm comes

to rest over my loins. “You’re in perfect proportion.” He shifts, leaning in, to mouth at a nipple, teasing it

hard between teeth and tongue.

It’s electrifying…

The sensation, so small, so controlled, sizzles through me, dragging the breath from my mouth, the cry

from my throat. My skin gooses and reflexively, I arch, hissing.

Borje pulls away, looking pleased. His hand still lies over the cleft of my thighs.

My ribs heave like bellows. “Borje…”

His smile fades. “Georgie, before we…” He looks away. Looks back. “Before we do this, there’s

something I should tell you.”

The change in him is almost frightening. “Borje? What…? I thought… I thought you and I…”

He shakes his head, a quick sharp movement. “Nothing like that, Georgie. I want you. I believe you

want me.” The hand at my loins presses, oh, so gently. “No… you see… your father, he told me about

the assault on you last year. What those men intended to do.” He licks his lips. “If I do anything that…

distresses you, you must tell me.”

My mouth dries. “My dad told you about that?” Behind my eyes, something prickles, growing hot.

“He wasn’t trying to betray your confidence. When he knew that I was sincere about… about you… he

told me so that I’d know to be careful.”

Of course he did…

“Borje…” I palm his cheek… “You’re not one of the men that was going to hurt me. No, it’s not a

pleasant memory, and yes, at the time, I was badly frightened. But Dad and his friends got to me in Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

time. I wasn’t seriously hurt and I’m fine now.”

His voice is husky, intense. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

His smile blooms again, slow and easy. It’s difficult to smile and kiss at the same time, but Borje does,

his lips meeting mine as his hand, which never left me, glides over my skin. Warm and firm and

smooth, fingers drift around and over my hips, tracing the line of hard bone under tender skin, coasting

my outer thighs, cruising to the inner. Brushing over the fine skin there, they set nerves sparking to my

core. Inside, my flesh ripples and flows, wanting his close...

Inside…

The fingers settle, his palm cupping the dark vee of my thighs… And hold…

“Georgie?” With the single word, his breath warms my cheek.

“Yes.” Locking my arms around his shoulders, I tilt my hips, cant my knees, open myself to him. His

hand slides down.

Probing doubtless dim and cosy against my heating folds, slipping easily inward over already slippery

flesh. He hums his pleasure. “You’re ready for me.”

“I’ve been ready for you for weeks.”

“I had to be sure.” A single finger draws spirals, orbiting my pussy. Not entering me, but tracing circles

around my sex. Smaller the circles grow, and smaller, drawing ever closer, moving ever inward. I’m

flowing, my core melting at his touch, longing for more.

“Borje…”

Without a word, he rolls, shifting to lie above me. His weight on his elbows, our bodies meet: his belly

to mine, his mouth to mine, his chest to my breasts. The hardness of his thighs is a pressure against

my softer frame. The hardness of his erection is a pressure against my belly and mound.