Jenn Bennett - Bitter Spirits

The door swung open.

Winter’s big body filled the doorway. His hair was wet and neatly combed back, dark as rich soil, and he was wearing nothing but a white damask hotel towel wrapped around his hips.

Smelling of soap and shampoo, he propped his forearm on the doorframe. Everything below was all long, ropy arm muscles, bunching shoulders, and that massive chest of his, covered in damp hair. Her gaze dropped to admire impossibly thick thighs. The towel was just big enough to tuck around all . . . that.

This certainly didn’t look like breakfast.

She shivered, whether from cold or anticipation or fear, she didn’t know.

“Christ alive, Aida. You’re shivering.”

“I don’t own an umbrella.”

He pulled her inside the room with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Get in here before you catch pneumonia.”

This room was just as exquisite and decadent as the Palace’s, filled with heavy brocade draperies and beautiful furniture, and what might have been one of the finest views of the city if not for the storm. “You have a balcony?”

“Unless you want to get electrocuted, I’d advise that you wait until the storm’s over before venturing out there.” After helping her out of her coat and cloche, he pulled her through the sitting room and into a small bedroom. A second set of glass doors on the far wall opened up to the same balcony, only the doors were wide open there, letting in a cool, damp breeze that sent another shiver through her. She caught another glimpse of the storm-wracked cityscape before Winter made a sharp right and urged her into a brightly lit bathroom. “Get your shoes off,” he said, reaching for a stack of thin towels that matched the one around his waist.

She obeyed without thinking, toeing off her Mary Janes at the heels, leaning on a gold-fauceted vanity for balance. Her hand touched metal. A small round tin stamped with the words MERRY WIDOWS and a quantity: 3. It took her a moment to realize what was inside.

She wrinkled her nose, half embarrassed, half offended. “I’m not disease ridden.”

“Neither am I. What’s the matter?”

“It makes me feel cheap.”

“I don’t know why. They aren’t just for disease. I’m not exactly the best candidate for fatherhood at the moment. What precautions have you previously taken?”

“I guess I got lucky,” she admitted. “It was only the two times.”

“I suppose if your lovers were incompetent enough to fail you in other ways, it should come as no surprise that they didn’t care enough to see to this, either.”

She’d never thought of it that way, but it made her feel both grateful and ashamed at the same time. Her brain searched for a witty retort, but she was too frazzled to fight.

“One thing at a time, okay?” He slid the tin out of her reach, kicked her shoes aside, and began toweling off her hair. “You look like a homeless beggar,” he said with amusement in his voice.

“I feel like one.” She was relieved to change subjects.

He tossed the damp towel on the tiled floor and picked up another, then stopped to look at her. “I know you’re not going to be happy about this, but there’s really no way around it, so this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to take off your wet clothes, and I’m going to look at the scars on your hips.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, groaning under her breath.

Winter pushed back her damp bangs with one swooping, warm palm and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I scare children on the street.” His fingers reached for the hem of her striped top. “If you are black and blue and grossly disfigured, I will not even blink.”

She raised her arms as he pulled her top over her head. “It’s not that bad,” she mumbled.

“Has your skin turned green and putrid?” he said in a teasing voice as he slipped his hands around her back to unfasten her bandeau brassiere.

“No.”

“Does it look like you’ve been run over by a lawn mower?”

“No.”

Winter paused to look at her as cool air breezed across her bare breasts. The front of his towel expanded, temporarily distracting her from his fingers, which were unbuttoning and sliding off her skirt. When she stood in nothing but stockings and lacy-edged silk tap pants, her anxiety ramped back up. She stared at the wall as he tugged her stockings down.

“Aida,” he commanded as he stood. “Look at my face.”

The bright light from the bathroom vanity made his good pupil constrict to a fine black point—a drastic contrast to his dilated eye. He pressed a kiss between her brows and slowly rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “It’s only me.”

“I know,” she replied as her muscles began relaxing under his petting hands. “That’s what makes it worse.”

“Why?”

“Because—” She lost her train of thought when his hands moved from her arms to her waist. Before she could protest, warm palms slipped beneath the waist of her tap pants and ran down her hips.

“I can barely feel them.” A moment later, silk slid down her legs, and there was nothing she could do but endure his inspection. Dense patches of toughened, bumpy skin started at the outer curve of her lower hips and spread down, mid-thigh, each patch about the size of her hand. The freckles both hid the scars and made them more noticeable in places.

“This is what you’re worried about?” he said, running the pads of his fingers over her scars. “How long have you had them?”

She let out a long breath. “Since I began working nightclubs. They’ve gotten thicker over the last year. And I know you can see them, so don’t tell me you can’t.”

“Yes, I can see them,” he said softly.

“I’ve tried to use the lancet on other places, but this is the easiest to hide onstage.”

He studied the other hip and brushed his knuckles over a tender spot. “It’s red here.”

“That was from two nights ago, my last show. I try to switch sides every show.”

“Probably wise.” His hand ran up the scars, over the upper curve of her hip, up her ribs. Then he cupped her breasts, catching her off guard. “Now, are we done with this ridiculousness?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling as if she’d cleared some small hurdle or received a passing grade on a test. And when he traced circles around her nipples with his thumbs, she gasped for breath and forgot about the scars altogether.

“Good.” The erection tenting his towel brushed against her stomach. “See what you do to me?” he whispered roughly against her hair. “Even the sound of your voice makes me hard. Your smile . . . your laugh. You smell so damn good. Christ, Aida—you turn me into a babbling fool.”

“Winter.” Her forehead fell against the damp hair on his chest. He was always so warm.

“I want you, cheetah. Every inch, scars and all. I want all of you.”

His words emboldened her. The corner of towel tucked into his waist looked as though it wouldn’t take much effort to come loose. She took hold of that corner and tugged.

AIDA STARED AT WINTER’S HARD COCK. SHE COULDN’T HELP IT. It was long and shockingly thick, jutting proudly from a forest of dark curls. And it curved upward at the end like the stalk of a shaded plant desperately seeking sunlight.

His knuckles brushed her belly as he casually took himself in hand. One stroke pulled the foreskin back to expose a fat, glistening tip. “What do you think?” he asked, half mischievous, half serious, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it.

What did she think?

She thought he was bigger and more exciting than anything she’d seen before. She thought maybe the crazy pornographic drawing on that wicked postcard of his wasn’t as exaggerated as she’d believed.

After another stroke, he aimed toward her hip and rubbed himself across the scars there. It could’ve been crude; it wasn’t. He was speaking to her in a primal language she was disarmed to realize she not only understood, but craved.

She wanted to speak that language, too.

When she reached between them, he guided her hand to replace his. He was shockingly hot and smooth, velvet over a core of steel. The fingers circling his girth did not meet her thumb.

She ran her palm down his length and felt him shudder. His hands cupped the back of her head as he kissed her hotly, his tongue filling her mouth above as he filled her hand below. She was inexplicably happy, feeling an urge to pleasure him, to make him feel as good as she’d felt last night. He made low, hungered noises as she stroked him with more confidence, then pulled back on a groan. “You have to stop,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I’ve wanted you too badly for too long.”

A thrill raced through her.

He urged her toward the bathroom door, grabbing the round tin off the vanity along the way, then herded her to the bed.

Rain pounded on the balcony a few feet away. Cool wind carried scents of the city into the room—concrete and rust and brick—as they crawled onto the bed together. He dropped the tin on the embroidered matelassé coverlet and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her mouth, her neck.

Pleasure rippled over her, flooding her body from the outside in as they rolled together. They were skin to skin: her breasts pressed against the whorls of hair covering his chest, his erection trapped against her belly, her legs tangling with his, intertwined. Just this indulgence alone was an extravagance, and she explored the planes and contours of his body, touching him freely without shame.

Such a joy.

She marveled at how solid he was. Not just his chest and arms, but his back. Muscles she’d never felt before on another man. Her hands found the twin dimples above his buttocks that she’d often fantasized about touching since spotting them at Velma’s. And when she pressed her fingers into those dimples and traced their shape, his mouth opened wide against her cheek—