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If the brush of his arm against mine was enough to send a jolt of pleasure through my body, I couldn’t imagine what his hands on my bare skin, what his lips, his tongue, the scrape of his scruff would feel like.
When I moved to pass the baking pan to him, his hand closed over mine. Whether it was purposeful or accidental was anyone’s guess. Still, it made my gaze shoot up, finding his already on me, eyes dark, heavy-lidded. If I wasn’t mistaken, turned on. Just like I undeniably was.
Alexander and Laird had gone to town to pick up dessert.
Collis was on the front deck, smoking a cigar.
Marco was taking a hike.
We were as alone as we were going to get.
Seeming to come to the same conclusion as I did at the same exact time, the pan found its way into the drying rack as his hands moved out, and framed my face, his lips crashing down on mine.
My wet hands curled into his sleeves, holding on as he tipped my head further back, as his hand slid into my hair, as his tongue claimed mine.
A low, throaty sound escaped me, making a rumble move through Christopher’s chest.
His hands released me for the barest of seconds before sinking into my ass, yanking me upward and off my feet, depositing me onto the counter.
His body pressed into my knees, making them spread toward his sides, ankles crossed over his lower back, as his hardness pressed against me, making a shiver of anticipation move through my lower stomach.
Shameless, my legs tightened around him as my hips ground against him, getting the friction I so desperately needed.
Likewise needy, Christopher’s hips ground into mine as he bent me backward, as his lips ripped from mine, moving down my jaw, over my earlobe, down my neck.
His tongue traced, scruff scraped, lips closed and sucked, sending a shock of pleasure to my core, making his name whimper out from between my lips.
On a growl, his lips claimed mine again as his arms anchored around my back, holding me to him as he lifted me off the counter, turned, walked me through the house, doing so blindly as his lips continued their relentless assault, making mine feel swollen and overly sensitive.
My back slammed against the wall in the hallway, his cock grinding against me restlessly, stoking the flames of need in my system, making the pressure on my lower stomach almost unbearable before he pulled me away once again, going up the stairs, down another hall, into a room, the door slamming behind us.
Inside, he made his way to the bed, turning, dropping down with me straddling him, giving me all the power.
And I used it. To drive myself up, to move against him until my whimpers became too much for him, making his hands greedy, yanking at the skirt of my sundress, pulling it up, allowing his hand to slip underneath, slide over the patch of material covering me, working my clit through it, driving me up and over before I could even draw in a steadying breath.
“Again,” he demanded, fingers slipping under the material, moving up my slick cleft, circling over my clit until it felt swollen and too sensitive, then moving back downward.
Two fingers tapped against the entrance to my body, making my thighs clench the sides of his hips, making low, mewling noises escape me, wanting the pressure, needing the invasion.
“Christopher, please,” I demanded as he continued the torment.
Dark eyes on me, his fingers pressed inside, slow, all the way, pausing, refusing to budge.
On a grumble, I lifted up a bit, then rolled my hips, feeling his fingers press against my top wall as I did so, making that shock of G-spot contact tighten my walls around his fingers as he started to gently thrust as I continued the circles, both of us driving me up, then sending me crashing over once again.
Christopher’s hands left me once more, grabbing my dress, bunching the flowing fabric up, inching it upward, exposing my belly, my bra, pulling it up over my head.
Greedy fingers reached out, fumbling with his shirt buttons, yanking at the fabric of his shirt to free it from his waistband, so I could spread it wide, slide it off of his magnificently tanned shoulders.
He always looked good with his shirt off. In the mornings before he got dressed for the day. During and after his workouts. But he looked especially good right there, right then, for my eyes and hands only.
My fingers traced over his shoulders then inward and down at his chest, over the muscles of his abdomen, feeling them twitch at the contact.
My fingers snagged the side of his belt, working it out of the loop, slipping the prong out of the hole, sliding it free from the rest of the loops, dropping it down on the floor beside me. When my fingers sought his button and zipper, though, his moved behind me, slid up my back, snagged my bra, working the clasps free, exposing me, then distracting me from my task as his fingertips grazed the undersides of my breasts, thumbs moving out to stroke over the hardened peaks, working them into tighter buds.
