Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

left stocking, fingertips indescribably erotic, smoothing over her ankle, the top of her foot.. .

Victoria caught her breath—“places where the child had often played, and through gardens full of beautiful

flowers.”

Gabriel released Victoria’s left foot, tugged at her right, momentarily pitching her off balance.

Victoria’s fingers dug into the knotted muscles that were his shoulders. “The angel asked the child,”—

she tried to regulate her breathing, failed—“which flowers shall we take with us to heaven to be

transplanted there?”

Gabriel straightened; perforce Victoria straightened.

The room tilted; in one motion Gabriel swept her up into his arms and set her onto her knees in the center

of the bed, mattress rolling, springs creaking.

Gabriel reached for the silver tin of condoms on the oak nightstand, long eyelashes gouging dark shadows

into his cheeks. “Which flower did the child choose?”

Expecting the obvious: only the most beautiful flowers were worthy of heaven.

“There was a”—Gabriel rolled up a sheath onto his manhood, brown rubber devouring the purple head of

his crown . .. the bulging blue veins—“a slender, beautiful rosebush, but someone had broken the stem so

that”—the sheath disappeared into the thick blond hair curling around the base of his penis—“that the

half-opened rosebuds were faded and withered.”

Had there been roses in Calais? she fleetingly wondered.

Gabriel lifted his left knee onto the bed, mattress dipping—he grabbed Victoria to hold her flailing body

upright; she simultaneously grabbed him—right knee joining so that he knelt in front of her.

Breast to chest. Stomach to stomach. Groin to groin.

Gabriel did not move, caught in his need to be touched and his need to be free.

The nippled condom prodded her clitoris.

She carefully gripped his waist. There were bunched muscles there, too.

Pain darkened the silver of his eyes.

Gabriel did not pull away. He cupped Victoria’s face, hands hard, eyes intent, breath scorching her lips. “

Put me inside you, Victoria.”

Put him inside her ... while she . . . ?

She moistened her lips, tasting his breath. “Shall I... finish the story first?”

“No.” His breath licked her upper lips, his penis licked her nether lips. “When I’m inside you, then I want

you to finish it. I need to feel you, Victoria. I need to feel you holding me inside and out. I need you to make

me believe ...”

That a thirteen-year-old boy born in a gutter could be an angel.

Gabriel filled her hand with hot, rubber-sheathed flesh; he overflowed her hand with hot, rubber-sheathed

flesh.

Gabriel did not fit into the tight space between her thighs.

Hot breath filled Victoria’s lungs; hard flesh seesawed between her nether lips, sliding with each breath,

each adjustment of the mattress.

Equally hard hands slid down her face, her neck, her shoulders, her arms ... he firmly grasped her hips. “

Lift your right knee and put your foot on the bed, leg splayed.”

“What then?” she breathed.

This was awkward; this was reality.

This was a man and a woman sharing comfort as well as pleasure.

“Then you put me inside you,” he murmured, as if in pain, words hot and moist, “and lower your knee so

that you squeeze my cock and there is no place that we don’t touch.”

Inside. Outside.

Victoria raised her knee, leg splayed, and rested her foot flat onto giving silk. Nippled rubber notched her

portal.

“Take me, Victoria.” Flyaway hair haloed Gabriel’s head. “Take me into your body and make me feel

like an angel.”

Victoria took Gabriel into her body, fingers guiding his flesh, slipping on her flesh, nipples prodding his

chest, wiry hair prickling her breasts, elastic portal suddenly opening and swallowing him, the bulbous

crown, the thick stalk ...

Victoria gasped. Gabriel’s eyes closed, as if he, too, could not bear the pressure.

Hardly daring to breathe, she lowered her leg. Air locked inside her chest. Gabriel filled her completely,

vagina, lungs .. .

His eyelashes snapped open. “Tell me about the rosebush.”

Rosebush?...

Victoria desperately grasped Gabriel’s shoulders, thoughts circling, floundering—where had she left off

in the story? “The child—the child wanted to take the hurt rosebush so that it would— it would bloom

above in heaven.”

With each word Victoria could feel Gabriel vibrate inside her vagina and slide between the lips of her

labia.

“When the angel took the rosebush, he kissed the child’s eyes open to keep him awake, because he was

sleepy.” Hot, moist lips kissed Victoria’s left eyelid. Tears pooled in her eyes, leaked from her vagina. “And

then the angel gathered some beautiful flowers and some plain buttercups and heartsease.”

Gabriel kissed Victoria’s right eyelid, eyelashes fluttering, his lips petal-smooth. The kiss rocketed down

to her vagina.

“The child said”—Victoria squeezed her thighs together; Gabriel’s breath plummeted through her—“the

child said, ‘We have enough flowers,’ but the angel only nodded; he did not fly upward to heaven. Gabriel

—”

Pleasure robbed her breath.

The agony in Gabriel’s eyes gave it back.

“It was dark and still in the big town.” She sank her nails into his shoulders, forcibly concentrating on the

story and not the agonizing pleasure that was Gabriel. “The angel hovered over a small, narrow street. But

the child could only see ... a heap of straw ... some broken plates ... pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and ...

other rubbish.”

The French gutter Gabriel had been raised in suddenly reflected inside his eyes. Straw . . . Offal.. .

Brok en glass . . . Rags ... Rubbish.

Victoria found the strength to continue the story of an angel