Page 7 of After Care

“What are you doing?” My voice was so low, it struggled with the words. My brain fought to comprehend what was happening. The pulse between my thighs beat faster than my heart, speeding toward a finish line without knowing when the race started. Dampness pooled on my cotton underwear, and the faint scent of my sex filled the sliver of space between us.

“You have other areas that are sensitive,” he offered. “I’m sensing they have uncorked needs as well.”

The sound of his gravelly voice nearly undid me. I clenched, suppressing the tremble in my knees and the urge to lift a leg and wrap around him like a tree. My core sought friction. He was what I needed. His thick leg would be perfect. Better yet would be the mass straining against his jeans.

His fingers climbed—up, up, up—scrunching the material of my dress to my hips until…

Shit.

“What the fuck?” His finger found the high-cut band at the leg of my underwear. Since it had clearly never, ever crossed my mind that anyone other than me would see these panties, I’d forgotten about them. High-cut and high-waisted, they covered my lower abdomen, landing at my true waist to flatten the loose baggage of my lower belly. I suspected he was more familiar with thin lace and racy strings, and I had on the grandmother of all underwear in hopes of keeping a few things tucked into place.

“Oh my God,” I muttered, pushing at his wrists to lower my dress and cover myself. Could things get any more embarrassing?

Yes, actually.

He had slipped two thick fingers under the elastic band at my hip and trapped me by my underwear. Fingers clenched in the fabric, pinning me against him. I couldn’t budge his strength, and he wasn’t releasing me despite my protest.

“This is embarrassing,” I murmured.

“You think I care about your underwear? I’m more interested in what’s under there,” he growled. Literally, it was a groan of an epic man-bear.

I felt like a rag doll, jostled by the tug of my underwear, as I pressed at his chest to free myself. Then it happened. Two thick fingers crossed over my sensitive skin, so slick, so achy, so repressed. We both stopped struggling, and he repeated the motion before entering me. My breath hitched. Had he violated me? No, this was more like visceral pleasure to the nth-degree. My core clenched tighter than it ever had. I was so turned on, I couldn’t think. My surprised eyes found his just as shocked by my response. Was this really happening? Wasn’t this every woman’s fantasy? A random, sexy man in a dark ballroom during a vacation, who you’ll never see again?

Not mine. Not here. Not like this.

His fingers stopped moving, his arm frozen in a position that pinned me to the wall and connected me to him. My hand returned to his wrist, wrapping around the thick trunk and clutching at it to remove his fingers from me.

“I’m not going to lie. I want you…but I can’t do this,” I choked out, sounding weak, desperate, and lame. Why couldn’t I just let him finger me? Why couldn’t I be carefree and open to experimentation? To one-night stands? To a fling? God, maybe I should have cats.

One hand on the wall near my head steadied him as our breaths mixed, twirling over each other’s like our tongues had moments before. He pushed off the wall and stood taller, a paw of a hand rubbing at the heavy strain in his jeans, pressing seductively up and down with the heel of his hand.

“Don’t tease me, darlin’. I’m too old for this shit.”

No teasing. I wouldn’t even know how to tease. I’d been married, divorced, and alone for three years. Teasing was the last thing I knew how to do.

“I…” My voice faded as his fingers slipped down my channel, tiptoeing to my entrance for an exit, and that’s when I did the unthinkable. My traitorous body betrayed me.

I clenched.

My thighs slapped together, and our eyes snapped to one another.

“Oh, you’re definitely teasing me, beautiful, and that buys me a free sample.” His fingers plunged upward, retracing their retreat, and filling me enough I had to tip up on my toes. An animalistic groan settled between us, and I realized too late the sound came from me. My lids closed, and my forehead lowered to his shoulder. It was as if I was drugged. His fingers danced to the edge again, then leapt upward into my depths. I was too far gone, too wet, too wanting of his touch Because. You. Want. This, my body screamed. My hips curled, and my teeth bit into his shoulder.

“That’s what I thought, darlin’. You were ready to breathe.” He sniffed at my ear before pressing his lips to my neck. I squirmed at the sensation and danced over his fingers as they increased their pattern, thrusting deeper, harder, thrilling me in a way I couldn’t remember being thrilled. He was right. I wanted to breathe, and I was taking my first breath in a long time. The air was thin, the fragrance thickening. I heard the slick sound of my sex being touched, tender yet tantalizing, and I rocked with each stroke, silently begging to reach the tipping point. I gritted my teeth. I concentrated on the pleasure of his fingers. I fantasized a little that he said something dirty to me.

I want to fuck you, whispered in my head, and I detonated. Champagne uncorking had nothing on the release that escaped me. I overflowed with foamy bubbles and crisp crackles and sticky moisture that smelled sweet, tasted divine, and made me drunk on Tommy Carrigan. My head lulled back and tapped lightly on the wall behind me. Stars of silver light flittered behind my closed lids.

“That was something, darlin’,” he muttered to my neck. You can say that again, I thought. And then panic struck. Oh, my God. What had I done? The sound of his fingers slipping out of me made me cringe. I…I just let someone finger-f… me. I couldn’t even think the word, although the thought triggered me over the edge mere seconds ago. A trickle of dampness slid down my thigh, and I reached for it without thinking. Swiping my wet fingers on the wall, I used my other hand to straighten my dress and maneuver my underwear back in place. I couldn’t look at him.

“Now,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and strained. “Uncork me.” His belt clinked, and a zipper unzipped. I was suddenly in over my head and rolled mine against the plaster behind me. Sensing something from eyes avoiding his, his thumb and forefinger tenderly gripped my jaw.

“Just touch me,” he said, and I was reminded once again of pebbles plunking into a puddle. Smooth, plopping splats. I’d never been spoken to like that, in a voice like that. Hesitantly, I reached for the open seam of his jeans. The tips of my fingers tickled over the smooth head, rounding the mushroom shape to discover a mass so thick, so firm, so hard that my mouth watered. I closed my eyes and let sensation guide me, plunging forward as he had, to fit my hand within his jeans and encircle his stiff shaft. Coarse hairs tickled my knuckles, and I drew upward, caressing the trail leading to his belly button while stroking his length.

“Fuck, darlin’. Slow is good, but fast is better.” I repeated the motion, and he swallowed. “Okay, slow is good, too,” he muttered, lowering his mouth to my neck.

“Might need you to sample me. Give it a taste,” he murmured as I continued to tug him, increasing the pressure as I squeezed. His hand covered mine, guiding me. I knew one thing. I couldn’t taste him. That was too much. Wild thoughts threatened to ruin it. Where had his…been? Who had he been with lately? How many? How often?

“Stop thinking,” he murmured as his lips parted, and he sucked at my skin—the same skin that had ripples and folds, a testament to my age. My head tilted, allowing him more access. I was ridiculously drunk on this man, letting him intoxicate me with gruff words, a scruffy jaw, and wicked fingers. His hand palmed my backside and squeezed, pressing me toward him as my palm increased in speed.