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I’ll never get sick of this. Every time we kiss, it sets my body alight. I’m hard as steel right now, with her ass pressed against my crotch and her upper body twisted in mine. Her clay-covered hands find my shoulders. They curl around my neck, cool and slick from the pottery that now sits forgotten on the wheel.
She tastes sweet, perfect. When her fingers curl into the hair at the nape of my neck, I let out a low groan.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Trina,” I say against her lips before nipping at them and moving to her jaw, her neck. There’s a grey smudge of clay over her cheek where my thumb swept across it, and her normally perfect hair is already streaked with it.
It makes my blood heat to see her like this. Messy. Undone. Eyes glazed and hungry, lips swollen with my kiss.
I pull back an inch to meet her gaze, studying her expression. “You want me to stop?” I ask as my control frays. I brush my lips over her jaw, nuzzling her ear as I inhale her scent.
Her brows tug together, confusion flitting over her face. “What?”
My fingers dig into her waist as she clings to my neck, turning in my arms in a way that her perfect, pert ass rubs up against my hardness. I groan, closing my eyes. “You’re driving me crazy, Trina. I want you so bad I can barely think. If you want me to stop, you have to tell me.”
That sinful lip gets sucked in between her teeth. Her fingers burrow into my hair, and then she says the words that undo me completely. “The last thing I want you to do is stop, Mac. Especially not now.”
CHAPTER 17
Trina
This isn’t like me. I don’t go on motorcycle rides with men I’ve known only a couple of weeks. I don’t let them take me to their house in the woods, then make out with them with clay-covered hands. I’m a mother. I’m responsible.
But right now, I feel the furthest thing from responsible. Recklessness heats my blood, drives me to the brink of madness.
When I say those words to Mac, the tension finally snaps like a dry twig. He shifts his hold on me to pick me up, spinning me around as he stands and lifting me so I wrap my legs around his hips. One of his hands slides down to cup my ass while the other grips my hair, pulling me in for a hard kiss.
He walks me to a workbench and sets me down, never once breaking our kiss.
I love the way his body curls over mine. How he tugs me closer to the edge of the workbench and notches himself between my spread legs. I love the way his hands tangle into my hair, how his stubble abrades my skin, how his muscular arms wrap around me so tight it feels like every part of him is touching every part of me.
I’ve never been manhandled like this. I’ve never had someone take control of a kiss like this, showing me just how much he wants me.
When we finally break the kiss, both of us panting hard, I laugh at the streaks of clay across his shoulders, his face, his hair. “Messy,” I say between breaths.
“Perfect,” is his response as his lips brush over mine once again.
I need more of this. I need to feel the muscles of his back clenching under my palms. I need to breathe in the scent of his skin and commit it to memory.
Clawing at his shirt, I tug it up and over his head before leaning back and letting my hands drift down his body.
He. Is. Magnificent.
Hard slabs of muscle cover every inch of his body. My fingers run through the rough hair sprinkled over his chest as Mac watches me, his hands gripped on my thighs. When I run my fingers over the flat discs of his nipples, I catch the small inhale of breath he makes. I smile when he does it again when I run my nail over the same spot, glancing up at him through my lashes.
Letting my hands drift lower, I run my fingers through the grooves of every abdominal muscle, sucking in a hard breath when I reach that deep V that disappears down into his low-hanging jeans. His body is thick, solid. So utterly manly. There’s an unmistakable bulge in his pants and I bite my lip, hesitating for a brief moment before running my hand lower, over the zipper of his jeans to feel the steel-hard shaft beneath it.
Side note: my mother was right. It’s definitely not a micropenis.
“Trina,” Mac rasps, his fingers tightening on my thighs.
“You have a very nice body,” I tell him, one hand still cupped over his crotch. He throbs against me, sending a wave of heat crashing through my blood. I feel almost giddy. One touch and a few words have the power to make him throb like that. He’s hard as rock—for me.
So, when Mac reaches for the zipper of my coveralls and tugs them down, it feels almost like an inevitability. Yes, I want to undress with him. I want him to touch and explore my body like I crave to explore his. I want to feel the silk-covered steel of his shaft wrapped in my fingers. I want to taste him on my tongue. I want him inside me. Every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had comes roaring to life inside me as the zipper of my coveralls parts and I pull my arms out of the thick blue material.
Once the overalls are hanging on my hips, Mac stops. “Don’t move,” he says, his hands squeezing my hips as I sit on the counter. He moves to the sink, washes his hands, then comes back with a damp rag, which he uses to clean my hands in slow, methodical sweeps. “All that effort to keep your clothes clean,” he explains. “Wouldn’t want to ruin them now.”
“You’re perfect,” I blurt, and I’m not even sure I’m joking anymore.
Mac chuckles, fitting himself between my legs again, and with a quick kiss, moves those clean hands to my top. His deft fingers make quick work of the buttons on my sheer black blouse. When it’s fully open, he surprises me by tugging at my camisole with a rough, hard movement, exposing my chest. I gasp. My breasts are pushed up by the bunched fabric, peaked nipples sensitive in the cool air. When his rough thumb brushes over my breast, an echo of the movement I made over his chest, a shiver courses through me. I arch my back into his touch, leaning my palms on the workbench as my thighs tighten around his hips.
