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“So you thought about me,” he concludes, leaning forward and tracing the shell of my ear with his tongue.
“Yes.”
“Did you touch yourself when you thought about me?” His open palm cups my sex. He mutters an expletive when he encounters heat. “Tell me about it.”
“No.” My next breath is shallow. My eyes shut as pleasure shimmers through me like the sun baking a desert floor. He switches focus, taking my nipple on his tongue. I moan my approval since words aren’t forming at the moment. He suckles gently, plucking the other nipple. I release him to claw at his hair with both hands, crossing my ankles at his back and tucking him close. I tilt my hips, rubbing my soft against his hard. The bloom of what I expect will be a spectacular orgasm begins. He notices.
“She has something for me.”
“For me,” I argue. “You’re next.”
I feel his smile, his teeth scraping my sensitized nipple before sucking it deep into his mouth. His hands on my ass, he shifts his hips and thrusts against my skintight pants. The friction through the barrier is enough to take me there.
I come hard, launching my arm out to brace myself. Magnets from the refrigerator clatter to the floor. This week’s grocery list flutters into the gap separating fridge from counter, gone forever. I have the brief thought that my sister isn’t going to like that, and then there’s no thought at all. Only the sensation of his mouth moving away, his thick fingers working the button on my pants and drawing the zipper down.
He fruitlessly wrestles with the material, shimmying back and forth, side to side, and not getting far at all. “Damn, do I need a pair of scissors?”
I laugh. Funny and, well, possibly true.
“Let me.”
He helps me hop off the countertop. My knees are shaky from my release, but I’m determined to maneuver out of my tight leather pants without falling down. I’m giving him quite the show with all this wiggling and bending. I kick off my high heels and balance on one foot and then the other as I turn each pant leg inside out in the process. To my immediate right, his boxer briefs are tented impressively through the open fly of his dark trousers. The second I drop my pants on the linoleum, he cups my bottom, bare thanks to the thong.
His hands trace my ass cheeks, squeezing, kneading. Then his palms slide up my back while removing my camisole and bra. Those useless articles of clothing join my pants on the floor. He dips his finger past the strap of the thong and slides it up and down, up and down, his rough knuckle teasing my tender skin. I try not to hyperventilate. An impossibility when he reaches around and cups my sex, finding me damp and ready for more.
“Please,” I choke out. “I’m begging.”
“No need to beg. I want this as badly as you do.” His rough voice fills my ear before he bites the lobe gently, and then soothes it with a kiss. I lose his heat when he kneels to roll my thong off my legs. I hear the sound of more clothes being removed, and when I turn, I’m rewarded with a mostly naked Archer Owen. His shirt is untucked but still buttoned—a pity. His hand is wrapped around his hard length, sliding up and down the stalk of flesh in the most distracting way imaginable. “Turn around for me.”
A sudden intake of breath gives away my excitement. I cover for it by snarking, “You don’t want to look at me?”
“I’ll be looking. Trust me.” Cupping my jaw, he drags me forward for a long, wet kiss. His other hand braces my hip and pulls me close. Rather than spin me around right away, he lingers there, more kissing, more touching. More rubbing my naked body against the uncovered part of him. He releases my lips and twirls his finger in the air, motioning for me to turn. I lean over the countertop as my heart thrashes against my ribcage. His warm chest covers my back, his cock slipping between my folds. His mouth against my ear, he murmurs, “Don’t move.”
He leaves briefly to roll on a condom and then he’s back. He slides between my legs, the feeling no less erotic than before he was sheathed. His hands bracketing my hips, he rolls forward and enters me with one smooth thrust. I climb to my toes to accommodate him. He pumps slow and shallow as I adjust to his size.
I whimper my way toward my second orgasm in record time. While I attempt to regulate my breathing, he gathers my hair off my back and rolls it in his fist. He gives it a gentle tug, keeping me in place while his other hand grips my hip. I push back to meet his each and every thrust, all the while coiling tighter and tighter. I feel everything at once and want more.
His breathing is labored, interspersed with gruff grunts. My own breaths are shallow, my release hanging by the thinnest of threads. He notices, drives into me harder, and tugs my hair with enough force to send me over.
I cry out, cupping my hand over my mouth so the neighbors don’t hear, if it isn’t already too late. He loosens his hold on my hair. It falls over my face, tickling my nose. I rest my cheek flat on the cool counter while Archer, fingertips digging into the flesh of my hips, slams deep. Sensitive from my earlier release, every thrust dazzles me with sparks of light behind my closed eyelids. He doubles his efforts, arriving at his own destination a few strokes later. A deep groan works through his chest, the front of his thighs touching the backs of mine as a post-orgasmic shiver works its way up my spine.
He slides my hair aside, his lips landing on the back of my neck for a sweet kiss after down-and-dirty sex. He kisses vertebrae by vertebrae until he reaches my smiling lips. He’s folded over me again, his chest warm against my bare back. He’s buried inside me, his shirt sticking to my back thanks to a thin sheen of sweat. His voice is rough and rocky when he says, “You like me, Wildflower.”
It’s so absurd, I burst out laughing, but I have to agree. “Yeah, Kingpin. I do.”
