"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

"Why? You want to, Daddy, you want to play with your little girl, don't you?" She winked. "Vice is nice
but incest is best. The families that play together stay together." She looked around. "I like four-posters.
You want to tie me up, Daddy? I'd like that."

"No," Cantling said. He pushed back the covers, got out of bed, found his slippers and robe. His erection
throbbed against his leg. He had to get away, he had to put some distance between him and Cissy,
otherwiseтАж he didn't want to think about otherwise. He busied himself making a fire.

"I like that," Cissy said when he got it going. "Fires are so romantic."

Cantling turned around to face her again. "Why you?" he asked, trying to stay calm. "Richardson was the
protagonist of Black Roses, not you. And why skip to my fourth book? Why not somebody from
Family Tree or Rain?"

"Those gobblers?" Cissy said. "Nobody real there. You didn't really want Richardson, did you? I'm a lot
more fun." She stood up and let go of the satin sheet. It puddled about her ankles, the flames reflected off
its shiny folds. Her body was soft and sweet and young. She kicked free of the sheet and padded toward
him.

"Cut it out, Cissy," Cantling barked.

"I won't bite," Cissy said. She giggled. "Unless you want me to. Maybe I should tie you up, huh?" She
put her arms around him, gave him a hug, turned up her face for a kiss.

"Let go of me," he said, weakly. Her arms felt good. She felt good as she pressed up against him. It had
been a long time since Richard Cantling had held a woman in his arms; he didn't like to think about how
long. And he had never had a woman like Cissy, never, never. But he was frightened. "I can't do this," he
said. "I can't. I don't want to."

Cissy reached through the folds of his robe, shoved her hand inside his briefs, squeezed him gently.
"Liar," she said. "You want me. You've always wanted me. I'll bet you used to stop and jack off when
you were writing the sex scenes."

"No," Cantling said. "Never."

"Never?" She pouted. Her hand moved up and down. "Well, I bet you wanted to. I bet you got hard,
anyway. I bet you got hard every time you described me."
"I," he said. The denial would not come. "Cissy, please."

"Please," she murmured. Her hand was busy. "Yes, please." She tugged at his briefs and they fluttered to
the floor. "Please," she said. She untied his robe and helped him out of it. "Please." Her hand moved
along his side, played with his nipples; she stepped closer, and her breasts pressed lightly against his
chest. "Please," she said, and she looked up at him. Her tongue moved between her lips.

Richard Cantling groaned and took her in his trembling arms.

She was like no woman he had ever had. Her touch was fire and satin, electric, and her secret places
were sweet as honey.