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like Abigail herself. He mapped the interior, slowly thrust the tip of his tongue into the hot, narrow channel.
The ripples in her vagina increased.
Shifting his weight onto one elbow, he swept his right hand down the length of her side, then burrowed between her and the quilt to grasp a soft cheek. The motion pushed him deeper inside her. "Did I hurt you?"
"A little." Her voice was husky in the night, the prickly formality mellowed by passion. "I think you hurt me more with your fingers than you did with the ... other."
"That's because I used my fingers to stretch your maidenhead." He found her lips, swollen lips, sensitive lips that instinctively softened against the pressure of his. Lips that only he had kissed.
Gently he circled inside her, his tongue and his manhood.
Then, "What does your fantasy man do after he takes your virginity?"
"He ... shares his body with me."
Impossibly, Robert felt his manhood stirring to life. Deliberately he flexed inside her. "How does he share his body with you?"
Her breath escaped in a small gasp. Short nails carved half-moons into his back. "He lets me touch him. And kiss him. And taste him. Everything you did to me."
Whores had kissed Robert and whores had taken him into their mouths, all for money. No woman had ever expressed a desire to do so out of pure pleasure.
Gently he disengaged his body from hers and rolled over onto his back.
He wasn't prepared for a woman like Abigail. His fantasy woman took his passion and his body and gave him only her pleasure. She did not seek to know his body as he did hers.
The mattress dipped. Cool fingers tentatively rested on his stomach, trailed up his chest. "Do men have feelings in their ..." She lightly swept his chest in a searching motion, found him, and was instantly distracted. "You are smaller than I am."
He stared up into the darkness. "I am a man."
"But just as hard. When you touched my nipple, I felt it deep inside my womb. What does it feel like when I touch yours?"
She ran the pad of her thumb over his nipple. Again. And again. And again.
White fire shot straight to his groin. He grabbed her hand and held it flat against his chest, breathing in the scent of her body, of his body, of sex.
And wondered why a woman like Abigail, a woman who was filled with clean, innocent passion would take into herself a man like him, a man who had killed and confessed he would kill again.
"Does your fantasy woman suckle you, Robert?"
"All I need, Abigail, is a woman to give herself to me." His voice was even, remote. "I don't fantasize about giving myself to a woman."
"But you would?"
Not before tonight, he thought bleakly.
"Your fantasies, Abigail. Whatever you want."
"Then I want to suckle you, Robert."
Robert's chest swelled at the feel of her hot, wet mouth rooting through the coarse mat of his hair for his nipple. He was inexplicably overcome by a surge of vulnerability.
Women gave their breasts into the care of a man that he might nurture off her gentleness.
Men who killed did not nurture.
Men who killed had nothing to offer a lady.
Closing his eyes, he curved his hands around her head.
And realized that her hair was still caught up in the ugly bun that told the world she was a staid spinster, while inside her burned the same needs and wants that burned inside him, she caught up in a society that denied her womanhood, he caught up in a career that he had chosen when he was too young to know better.
He found a hairpinpulled it out.
The wet heat nuzzling his chest was abruptly replaced by cool air. A hand reached upgrabbed his that was searching for another pin.
"What are you doing?"
"Unveiling you."
Without warning Abigail scrambled up, mattress dipping, bed creaking. She gasped with dismay.
He opened his eyes, instantly alert, a soldier prepared for action.
"What is it?" he asked sharply.
"Nothing."
He reached outfound her knee. She was kneeling on the bed.
"Our bargain, Abigail." He tightened his grip. "Talk to me."
"It is just..." He could see her,