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It was her turn to laugh. She got up from her seat and pushed his shoulders until he moved his chair back. Hooking her leg over, she sat down in his lap. The denim of his jeans felt deliciously rough against the soft skin of her inner thighs as she met his sheepish grin with one of her own.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I suddenly have a devilish compulsion to corrupt you. And damn you to eternal damnation. It must be the militant anti-theist in me.”
He slid hot hands under the T-shirt she wore, the thick ridge under his button fly becoming more pronounced as she squirmed.
“Ah, well, I guess I can be a martyr to the cause,” he said, putting on a perfect Irish accent as he stood up, holding her in his arms.
He hefted her into the bedroom as she locked her legs around his waist and thrust her fingers into his hair to slant her lips over his. The sweet taste of maple syrup mixed with the heady taste of lust as she sucked on his marauding tongue. Callused hands cupped her bare buttocks, her swollen clitoris already aching for his touch. She let the endorphin rush wash over her, hoping it would sweep away all the sentimental thoughts of that young boy who had thought the world of his mother, and been determined to do anything to protect her.
What would it be like to have a man like this willing to protect you? Not as a son, but as a lover?
Her pulse jumped and she released the thick erection from his jeans, suddenly desperate to feel him hot and hard inside her. Raw, sweaty sex would have the desired effect and keep those disturbing thoughts at bay.
She didn’t need anyone to protect her.
Especially not Tyrone Sullivan. It would feel cloying and claustrophobic and far too intimate.
But as she chased another endorphin high, determined to prove to herself and him she didn’t need Ty for anything other than sex, the look in his eyes as he drove her to orgasm didn’t seem cheesy or sentimental or claustrophobic. It felt tender and affectionate and completely, bloody terrifying.
Chapter Eight
‡
“It’s time to haul ass, Madison. Let’s clean up and get off the barge.”
Zelda stretched and yawned, her butt smarting from the light slap that had woken her up from a perfectly pleasant doze in Ty’s arms.
“You haul ass.” She pouted. “I’m still recuperating from your pussy-eating skills.”
Ty whisked back the sheet and, ignoring her shriek of protest, hauled her up and over his shoulder.
“What the fuck do you think you’re—”
Another slap landed on her naked backside. “Watch out or I’m going to wash out that potty mouth with soap.”
“You watch out,” she grumbled as he dumped her naked in the barge’s tiny bathroom and flicked on the shower. The rest of her outraged protest was drowned out by a deluge of cold water from the showerhead.
Dunking her under, he continued chuckling as he soaped her tired body and doused her hea
d with his piney shampoo. She released a low groan and stopped struggling as his clever fingers massaged her scalp, then drifted down to untie the knots in her shoulder muscles. Her nipples squeezed into tight peaks as rough palms slick with soap suds, skimmed down to cup her breasts. Throwing her arms round his neck, she dragged him under the spray.
“I’ll forgive you for your outrageous treatment if you come back to bed,” she offered, feeling relaxed and playful.
She’d had a moment while they made love. But only a moment. They were still good, still fine. Maybe she’d dozed off in his arms again, but that was only because she’d been too comfortable to move out of them.
And that lovey-dovey look she thought she’d seen on his face while they pounded each other into oblivion must have been an apparition, too, brought on by the echo of sentiment after thinking of her own parents while he’d been talking about his. She hardly ever thought about her parents now. Having mourned their loss too deeply as a teenager, she’d learned to lock the grief away.
His thumbs flicked her nipples, making the ache pound in her sex, before he wrapped his arms round her hips, the fierce arousal on his face a joyous vindication.
Nope, this was still just a sex thing. They’d made love two times already today before she’d dozed off. But still she wanted him again, even though she felt tender from their last sex-capade.
“Nothing doing,” he murmured, contradicting himself somewhat as he nuzzled the sensitive spot under her chin. “We need to get the hell off the barge for the rest of the day.”
She glanced out the steamed glass of the bathroom window at the gathering twilight, and ignored the prickle of anxiety. They only had tonight left. “But it’s practically bedtime?”
“Bullshit, the night is still young.” He pulled out of her embrace, shut off the water and grabbed a towel. Sending her breasts a regretful look, he looped the fluffy white cotton over her shoulders and held it closed. “And I need some damn recovery time. We’ve hardly been off the barge in three days, and there’s such a thing as too much hot sex. I’m not fifteen anymore.”
“But I like hot sex.” And while they were preoccupied with it, it generally avoided conversations about stuff that might give her more insights into Ty Sullivan the man, instead of Ty Sullivan the sex machine. She cast a salacious glance at his already thickening cock. “And that looks surprisingly perky for a guy who isn’t fifteen anymore.”
