“You like that.” It wasn’t a question. He gripped a fistful of her long hair and tugged. “Unzip your dress.”
He wasn’t only going to do things to her under her skirt; he meant to have her naked.
Flutters exploded across her middle.
She should protest. She should say no. But, oh,the want… before she could stop herself, she reached back with trembling fingers, lowering the zipper as far as she could.
“That’s my girl,” he said, his dark chuckle a low rumble in his chest.
She felt him grasp the tab and take control, his fingertips brushing her spine. A powerful electric surge sparked through her. He lowered the zipper the rest of the way and pulled down her dress, sending the silky fabric pooling at her feet. She moved to step out of it.
“No.” His commanding voice, along with his hands firmly gripping her ankles, stopped her.
In the tiny tan thong and matching sheer balconet bra pushing up her small breasts, Jannie stood there, feeling as if she towered over him in her three-inch nude round-toe pumps. She knew he had a peek of the red soles, and from the back, she guessed her feet didn’t look that big.
If she had any doubts that he liked what he saw, they vanished in the next moment.
“This,” he said, his voice soft, “was worth waiting fifteen years for.”
Her throat closed at the awe and reverence in his tone, and her eyes drifted shut at the feel of his hands on her calves, silently urging her to widen her stance. She did, until the bunched-up dress restricted her.
“Perfection,” he murmured.
Something inside her unfurled, something only he had been able to evoke.
She felt … powerful. And so aroused, she wanted to whirl around and attack him, just like she had before. But something kept her feet planted right where they were, and the next second, his hands were on her inner thighs. Only for a few heartbeats, then he caressed her backside, his fingers so gentle, she thought she might scream. And if he didn’t do something to ease the ache that had escalated to near-pain, she was convinced she’d lose her mind.
“God, Jannie, it almost hurts to look at you.”
“Stop looking, then,” she heard herself say in a rasp she didn’t recognize.
She heard his sharp exhale, listened to his deep groan that bordered on desperation, and finally, finally, his finger slid along her thong, past the edge, pulling it aside.
And then, she sensed him lean in and felt the first lap of his hot tongue.
She bit back a cry.
The sensation was so intense, she felt as if she’d wobble in her shoes, but she did not. “That’s it,” she urged, “give me your tongue.”
And, oh, he did. He did.
She expected hard and fast and rough, but he licked slowly, deliberately, every pass soft, but with just the right amount of tantalizing pressure to bring her to the brink in no time. But he knew. He knew, uncannily in tune with her, and every time the telltale tingles made themselves known, he lengthened his strokes with a flattened tongue, his thumbs spreading her a little wider to delve inside, and the orgasm slipped away.
He pleasured her endlessly, alternating ways, seemingly bent on keeping her teetering on the precipice, never letting her get close. Dimly, she realized he had kept his distance, never fully bringing his face to rub against her; all she felt was his hot, talented tongue. She gripped the rail, legs starting to shake, wanting to grind into him, knowing that when she finally reached the peak, she’d shatter in a way she never had in her entire life.
Desperate to come yet never wanting it to end.
Because he worked her as if pleasuring her was his deepest desire, and what was even headier than the insane sensations he provoked was the way he made her feel: completely seen.
Her pulse pounded in her throat. Her vision blurred. Her fingers clenched and unclenched on the railing.
She wanted more.
Wanted to feel him.
Deep inside her.
“Nick …”
