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“What are we going to do about this?” he murmured deep in his throat.
“This?” It was a mere whisper.
“This.” He waved his other hand between the two of them. “I call it sparks. What do you call it?”
She didn’t answer directly. “We don’t have to do anything, do we?”
“I guess we don’t. Seems like a shame though. Like a ripe pear just begging to be eaten.”
Her color intensified. “I’m careful about what I eat.”
“Um, no you’re not. I saw you eat that bag of Flaming Cheetos from the vending machine at the vet’s.” He ran his thumb up the inside of her forearm, pushing her sleeve up, tracing the delicate tendon just under the surface of her soft skin.
“Okay, you’re right. But if we’re going for a metaphor for sex, I’m very, very picky. But you probably eat a lot, a big guy like you.” Her gaze slid across his shoulders, then to his chest, and lingered. His lips twitched in a smile. He liked having her attention on his body. It brought things to the realm of the physical, when so often Bliss seemed to have her head in the clouds.
“I wouldn’t say ‘a lot.’ I’m picky too.” He reached the nook at the inner junction of her elbow. Never had he kept his touch so light, so gentle. This moment called for seductive foreplay, much more than his usual hookups. There was no need when two people were just in it for the fuck. But he liked it.
Bliss shivered and he saw goosebumps rise on her skin. Her eyelids fluttered. He decided that this slow, deliberate arousing process had a lot to offer.
“You can’t possibly be as picky as I am,” she murmured.
“Oh yeah?”
He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. Then on her wrist, and on up her forearm, retracing the path his hand had taken. Her skin was fine-grained and silky, and so sensitive. He felt as if he could feel every one of her reactions right there in her skin. Pleasure. Surprise. Wide-open attention.
He waited for her to elaborate on her “picky” comment, but her focus had turned to her arm, and the deliberate caresses he was lavishing on it. She didn’t seem to want to talk any more, and that was fine with him. Communication wasn’t always verbal. Sometimes it was tactile, using strokes and touches. Then there was the mysterious chemical communication of pheromones and scents. Her natural fragrance was elusive. He had to concentrate to pick it up, but once he had, he couldn’t chase it from his head—or identify it. How could someone who’d been photographed thousands of times still seem so hard to pin down?
That was deliberate, he thought. She knew how to be looked at and yet not seen. To really see her, to see past the photogenic features and long limbs, you had to pay attention.
Luckily, he was well-trained in how to pay attention. It was a job requirement. A skill. One he had never been so glad to possess. It sure was serving him well at this moment, as he explored the tender skin in the crook of her elbow with his tongue.
He’d pushed her sleeve up as far as it could go. Time to take this to the next step. While continuing to swirl his tongue across the moist nook of her elbow, he used one hand to flick open the buttons on her oversize man’s shirt.
She didn’t stop him, but he heard her breath quicken. She wanted this, right? Surely she did. She’d used the word “seduce,” and she was watching him with wide, avid eyes.
Her shirt fell open. Underneath she wore a flimsy camisole in a creamy color that couldn’t hide the dark points of her nipples. She was right; her breasts were small. But her nipples were something else. Prominent. Erotic. Insistently rising against the thin fabric. He could practically hear them begging for his touch.
His mouth watered as he imagined that swollen flesh against his tongue. He had to taste her. Now.
But first, he covered her breasts with the full warmth of his hands.
“I warned you,” she murmured.
“No. You didn’t warn me about these fucking erotic-as-fuck nipples.” Great, two “fucks” in one sentence. He was fucking losing it. He bent down and took one nipple into his mouth, sending hot breath through the cloth of her cami.
She gave a strangled cry and dug her hands into his shoulders. He barely felt it. He was deep in silent communication with her left nipple. He suckled, tasting the warmth as her nipple plumped up. It was a perfect conversation except for that wall of cloth between his mouth and her flesh. He slid the dampened fabric across her nipples, making her groan. It was almost as if he could feel the maddening abrasion in his own cock.
He worked those nipples until they stood out like proud soldiers. Which was pretty much what his erection was doing too. Standing at attention before the goddess arched against the couch cushions under him.
She was making luscious little whimpers as she moved her body to give him all the access he needed. He pushed her camisole above her breasts. The long expanse of pale skin was broken only by the deep rose of her nipples, and a freckle or two along her torso.
And there he saw something that surprised the hell out of him. A tattoo. Bliss hadn’t seemed like a tattoo girl, but there it was, a flame with a gothic F—the Freaks logo.
“I got it to piss off my mom,” she gasped. “Boy, did it work.”
“You rebel. I dig it.”
Damn. His cock was so hard now he could punch a hole right through the cushions. Was she ready for this? He hadn’t conducted his usual pre-sex checklist, the tried-and-true convo that made sure they both knew what they were doing.
