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It weeps for her and I don’t think the fucker is going to like standing down.
I lean in to kiss Kaye and she melts into me, her lips parting under mine.
“I’ve never had sex on the beach.” Low and sultry, her voice is like crack to my dick. It jerks in response as blood races to engorge it. “I’ve heard sand is not our friend.”
“Then we’re in luck.Thisbeach has very little sand.” And there’s no way in hell I’m lying her down on the rocks. I may like things harder than most, but vigorous does not mean dangerous.
Like what Scott attempted. A feral growl rumbles in the back of my throat. It’s primal and raw, intent on tearing Scott apart.
“Kiss me.” She tugs me down to kiss her, and I eagerly oblige.
Electric, full of passion and fire, her lips burn and stoke my desire. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer as I deepen the kiss.
As I take control.
She gasps as I move my hand between us and slip my fingers under the fabric of her shirt.
Her tiny whimpers drive me forward as I push aside the fabric of her bra and finally get to feel the weight of her breast in my palm. Using my thumb and forefinger, I gently roll her nipple, stimulating it until it’s peaked and tight. Her delicious moans encourage me as I continue my exploration.
A sigh overcomes me as my patience falters. But Kaye surprises me by reaching down and grabbing the hem of her shirt. Eyes locked to mine, she pulls the shirt over her head. Her head disappears and her long hair spills around the fabric as she struggles to remove it—and fails. Poor thing is caught up in the twisting fabric.
“You’re killing me, little mouse.” I free her head, her hair, and extricate her arms from the sleeves. Bunching up her shirt, I carefully place it on the rock beside us, trying to keep the fabric as clean as possible.
Her chest heaves and her breasts rise and fall in a hypnotic rhythm. I could watch her tits all day. Biting her lower lip, she reaches behind her and unhooks her bra. Holding the cups against her breasts, the shoulder straps slip off her shoulders and hang on her arms.
“Give it to me.” Hand out, my command isn’t one she can refuse.
To my delight, she bends to my will, peeking through long lashes framing her eyes. Ever so slowly, she hands me her bra. A shy thing, she trades her hands for the bra.
Covering her flesh.
Like I did with the shirt, I place the bra where it will stay dry and mostly sand free. Then I take a step back and slowly shake my head.
“Arms down. Tits out. I want to drink you in. Don’t hide from me.”
In the darkness, it’s hard to tell, but I’m certain her cheeks turn beet red.
I love that.
Absolutely love her responsiveness.
Feeling my way through this, I navigate treacherous waters, finding out not only what she does and does not like, but what turns her on and turns her off, as well. She likes dominance. Absolutely loved when I took charge. She yields beautifully.
Is this why she allowed Asshat-Scott to get away with murder? My anger rises with the near-literal implication of that thought. The fucker could’ve killed her. He didn’t, but I give no grace for that. The fucker needs to go down.
With a breath in, I focus on the beautiful woman in front of me, instead of a man I want to rip limb from limb.
I reach out and wrap my fingers around her delicate wrists. Applying enough pressure to make a statement—a show of dominance and test of my theory—I pull her hands away from her breasts and place them at her side.
I graze my knuckles over the creamy expanse of her curves, loving the way her breath hitches when I stroke her nipple and give the tiniest flick of sensation.
“Keep your hands down and don’t move.”
She jumps when I cup her breast.
Leaning down, I cover her nipple with my mouth and drive her crazy with tiny flicks of my tongue. She rises on tiptoe, and despite my command, both hands lift and dig into my hair, curling and tugging as her little whimpers turn into deep, throaty moans.
I don’t correct her for moving her hands, because I love the way her fingers twist and pull my hair.
