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Good lord, he was. Even now, while she struggled to reclaim control of herself, his big hand lingered between her legs, cupping her in his wide, capable palm. Petting her gently. Painfully gentle. She’d had no idea such a sensation existed, until now, and she’d had no idea she was so susceptible to it. Worse, his mouth cruised along her hip, and she was pretty sure his lips formed a smile. A smug smile.
That got her moving. She pushed off the wall. He pushed her right back against it, and held her there, hands at her waist, while he took his time running his tongue up her spine, slowly rising to his feet as he worked his way from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. His hand glided down her stomach, and reasserted his claim to the domain between her thighs. She braced for his penetrating touch, but he didn’t intrude past her body’s damp, swollen barriers. He simply rested there, heavy, proprietary, and strangely…protective. Almost comforting. As if he understood at this moment her orgasm-flushed center needed the refuge.
Protective? Comforting? Holy hell, Peterson, what is wrong with you?
Nothing a little distance wouldn’t solve, but just as she reformed her intention to shake him off, he bit her earlobe, sending a warning shiver directly to parts of her still stinging from similar treatment. “Be still. We’re not done.”
Maybe not, but she turned her head away, trying not to make it too easy for him.
“Unless…” He trailed off and buried his face in her hair. His chest expanded against her shoulder blades as he inhaled, and the shivers threatened again at the notion of him breathing her in like oxygen.
“Unless what?” Pride had her attempting to straighten.
“Unless you can’t handle anymore?”
He moved closer. Beneath the chafe of his pants she felt a whole lot “more,” and new heat flooded to where he cupped her. Would he detect it? Would he realize he exerted more control over her body with one simple shift of his hips than she did with all the warning lights flashing in her brain? The thought sent a separate wave of heat to her face.
She fell back on old defenses. Sarcasm. Swagger. “Maybe I’m just not particularly interested in what else you’ve got?”
The insinuation spurred his fingers into action. He administered one long, leisurely stroke and her body betrayed her with wet sounds. His laugh turned her cheeks fiery. “Liar,” he scolded.
A pathetic moan slid past her throat, and his hand immediately stilled. “But I can’t help wondering if you’ve hit your limit, because these gorgeous legs of yours are trembling.”
Okay, this bit of cockiness she could rectify right now. “My legs are trembling because these shoes are killing my feet.”
“Well, now I feel guilty, since you wore them for me.”
Shit. She was never going to live that down. Before she could think up a suitably biting reply, he continued, “If you ask nicely, I’ll give you some relief.”
“This may come as a shock to you, but I know how to take off my shoes all by myself.”
“The shoes stay on. I have plans for them. The relief I have in mind involves getting you off your feet. Would you be more comfortable on your knees, or your back? Maybe you prefer a position where you can bury your face in a pillow to keep the entire complex from hearing how relieved you are.”
His words made her legs tremble all the more, because she had a sneaking suspicion his version of “relief” might feel a lot like torture. Very addictive torture. Time to dole out a little of her own, before she found herself on the receiving end of another crippling orgasm. She pushed her hips back, and rubbed them over the front of his trousers, side to side, and then up, up…sweet Jesus…up, and down. A low growl rumbled up from his chest, and then his hands flew to her waist, fingers digging into her skin. But he didn’t stop her.
“Seems like you’re in need of some relief, too, Booker. Why don’t we move this to the sofa, and I can take care of both our needs?”
With the suddenness of a lightning strike, he spun her around, and fused his mouth to hers. His quick hands got a tight grip on her ass. Strong arms flexed, and the next thing she knew their heads were level, her breasts crushed against cashmere covered granite, and her toes dangled a foot off the ground. Strategies flew out of her head like startled birds, leaving only instincts. She twined her arms around his head. The world spun as he swung away from the wall, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to keep their lower bodies tight. The move paid off, because every step he took jostled her unguarded sex against the jutting curve of his cock.
How much did it cost to dry-clean a pair of men’s dress pants? Many more steps and one of them seemed likely to find out. So be it. She wiggled and shifted and did everything in her power to maximize the haphazard caress.
A compass in her head warned her they weren’t on the right trajectory to end up at her sofa, but she was too busy being devoured by his fast, hungry mouth to offer directions. Second by second, that mouth grew less controlled. Less accurate. Teeth scraped flesh. His five o’clock shadow scratched across the delicate, kiss-dampened skin around her lips, and made every other patch of damp, delicate skin on her body tingle.
He finally stopped, and let her slide down his body. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell they no longer stood in any of the well-lit areas of her apartment, which meant only one thing. He’d opted for the bedroom. Not that big a deal, normally, but tonight her heart stuttered at the prospect.
Her bedroom contained soft, whimsical flourishes she’d lacked growing up. Booker’s trained eyes wouldn’t miss the hand-gathered sand dollar collection on her windowsill, or the framed watercolor of Nido Beach at sunrise she’d painted in seventh grade, and definitely not the impractically large, unapologetically romantic iron bed taking up the better part of the room. Granted, she’d just allowed the man unrestricted access to her body, but revealing her romantic, impractical side to him suddenly seemed too in
timate.
She opened her eyes and drew back to suggest someplace else. Anywhere. The bathroom, the kitchen, her postage-stamp-sized patio—but just as she started to speak, Booker reached an arm behind his head and yanked his sweater off in one smooth, muscle-rippling move.
The power of speech fled. All she could do was stand and behold. Light from the hallway outlined serve-and-protect shoulders. The slant of sturdy collarbones drew her eye to the chiseled line bisecting his muscled chest. Her gaze slid down, bouncing over each gently rounded slope of his abs, and lingering in every shadowy slash between. Wedges of muscle carved in at his hips and disappeared under the band of white visible above the waist of his undone pants.
Her attention homed in on the ridge…the proud, thick ridge rising from his half-opened fly, and stretching the flap of his boxer briefs. Hello, sheriff.
Hair-trigger muscles inside her clenched, even as every self-preserving instinct warned her to back away. Claim an urgent commitment first thing in the morning and get him out the door, pronto, because the stakes tonight suddenly seemed much higher than she could afford. But no amount of willpower could keep her hands from following the path her eyes had traveled.
By the time her fingers snagged in the waistband of his underwear, her hormones had conducted crisis-level negotiations with her self-preserving instincts, and struck a bargain. One teensy ground rule she’d keep to herself. Namely, she could ride him like a wave, until they both crashed and broke, but she would absolutely, positively not let him into her bed. No, sir. When she crawled under the covers at night, she didn’t need memories of Booker in there with her.
