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“Mm-hmm,” he managed, somewhat pained, while she worked on his upper thighs. “It hurt too much to ever get another one. I almost passed out.”
“Soft city boy.”
When he reached back and pinched her calf, she squealed. But then his fingertips stayed, running up and down the length of her leg, and he said, “I’m not verysoftright now.”
She rolled her lips together, then asked, “Does that hurt, too?”
“No, that definitely doesn’t hurt. Mira?”
“Yes, Cole?”
“When’s the last time you got a massage?”
She paused for a moment, thinking. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a—” She was on her back before she finished her sentence, Cole’s lips on her lips, his tongue in her mouth, his cock hard and heavy between her legs. And then, like she was a rag doll he liked to play with, he flipped her onto her stomach.
“My turn,” he said, and mischief danced through the words. She felt her bra clasp spring free, her hips raised into the air, her button unbuttoned, zipper unzipped, pants and underwear peeled from her legs. She heard the click of the oil cap, and then his hands were everywhere.
The oil was warm and slick, his hands strong and sure moving over her skin, squeezing her shoulders, cupping her neck, his thumb and fingers working out tension at the base of her skull she hadn’t even known was there. “That feels so good,” she said, her muscles unwinding a lifetime of tension under his long fingers, her skin loose and tingling.
“I might not be a baker, but I’m no slouch at kneading.”
“If you want a job”—she moaned when he pressed his thumbs into her lower back—“you’re hired.”
His soft laughter raised the hairs on her arms, and then he kissed her between her shoulder blades, his hands gliding over the sides of her body, fingertips grazing the outer curves of her breasts. “This tattoo,” he said against her skin. “I have dreams about it.”
His lips followed the path of Ian’s song, kissing along her spine. The tattoo stopped at her low back, but Cole didn’t, dragging his tongue down her crease, taking her ass in both hands and squeezing, kissing, nibbling.
She writhed beneath him, need and desire spiraling through her, swelling like a storm as he pushed her knee out to the side, opening her up to him.
His fingers found her first, sliding between her lips, bringing the wetness he found there forward to draw slippery circles around her clit. “Is this what you had in mind, Mira? Is this what you came here for?”
“Yes.” It felt wrong, admitting that. But she couldn’t deny how much she wanted him, needed him. He had her too exposed in this position, spread out for him, too open to not tell him the truth. Yes, she was here for sex, for his hands, his body, his lips and his teeth and,oh god, his tongue.
He licked a searing path along her inner thigh, then hoisted her hips up. “Or did you come here for this?” Before she could answer, his tongue slid through her entrance, higher, pressing, licking, swirling around the sensitive skin of her hole.
It didn’t matter, her insecurities, her fears, because with the low, heavy buzz already building in her core, she knew he was about to make her come so hard she could be stranded in the desert for days, and she’d take this climax before she’d take water.
“All right, one-orgasm-wonder,” he said, his finger abandoning her clit to slide inside her. “Should I finish you off like this? Or when I fuck you?”
“Like this,” she gasped while a second finger stretched her, filling her. “Please.”
Pulling his fingers out, he pushed her knees apart, rolled onto his back, and slid beneath her.
What followed would exist in her memory as a hazy, ecstasy-induced fever dream in which she’d be fairly certain he’d grasped her hips and pulled her down onto his hot, open mouth. But it would be impossible to say. She’d need a functioning brain to remember this orgasm with any accuracy. And with his fingers and his tongue working her over in perfect unison, with her hips grinding helplessly against him while she buried her moans in his pillow, there wasn’t a single working neuron left in all the land.
She was already hovering on the edge, but when he crooked his fingers inside her, when he pressed her clit between his lips and sucked, when he found every single spot that lit her up like she’d painstakingly drawn him a diagram, she was gone, flung far away from this cabin, from this town, from this planet. White heat uncoiled in her belly, whipping through her limbs as the orgasm built, swelled, hovered so long she nearly cried out until it finally broke over her, pleasure pulsing in its wake.
Her arms didn’t work. Her legs were useless. Her body didn’t belong to her anymore. It was all his. And there was something exhilarating but also terrifying about it, the surrender, the inability to think or plan or care about anything except the deep brown pools of his eyes when he flipped her over, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “I changed my mind. I want to be on top.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
COLE
Only sex?She wanted them to only have meaningless, emotionless, robot sex?
The fuck we will.
He’d told her he understood, but that didn’t mean he agreed with her. Because he didn’t. At all. He was already a proud resident of Emotionland. He’d popped a tent after Madigan’s wedding, built a house when she’d sent him tarts, and dug out a football field–sized bunker when she’d led him into her bedroom. And now?Fuck it. He was running for mayor.
