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“Tell me,” he urged. “Tell me where it hurts.”
In for a dime… Brazen hussy that she was, she opened her eyes, and pulled his hand to her sensitive breast. Sexual awareness tinged then bloomed into full-scale knowledge as a branding heat rocked her. In that same moment, she realized her error.
One touch could never be enough.
Twenty-One
He should have been out the door, on his way to a bottle of scotch and a good night’s sleep. Should have walked the minute he realized this whole night was one gelato scoop short of a catastrophe.
Getting angry with her, watching her grovel had felt so…shitty. He hated seeing her upset, pouting those bee-stung lips above that stubborn chin, her big eyes, wide and glazed with hurt. More than that, he hated being at the root of it.
As for the killer bod, vibrating with sex and need? Didn’t hate that so much. And the soft breast cradled in his hand? No hatin’ here.
You know how it goes. One minute you’re whining about how rough it is because you’re so bloody famous, the next you’re feeling up a beautiful woman in her kitchen. After the initial shock of finding his hand exactly where it needed to be, millions of years of evolution kicked in. He had a gorgeous woman's breast beneath his fingertips—even better, she had put his hand here—so he'd damn well better know what to do with it.
He let her weight fill his palm and when that wasn't enough, he massaged through the thin layers of blouse and bra, insanely happy when his touch turned her nipple into a pebble of hard candy. She arched and thrust against his hand.
“Please, Jack.” Her eyelids fell to half-mast, her breathing turned shallow.
His fingers felt thick as they fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, desperate to get it off so he could get her off. Damn things fought him like an obstacle course but he overcame. Veni, vidi, vici. He didn’t even have to help her out of her top. A slight shrug of those sexy shoulders sent it drifting to the floor, and now she presented herself for inspection, her breasts barely cupped and spilling out of sky-blue lace.
Fucking beautiful.
He slid her bra strap off her shoulder and slipped his palm under the scalloped edge of one of the cups, releasing, one breast, then the other. A quick flick of his fingers and her bra met the same fate as her blouse. She was as spectacular as he'd expected, times infinity.
His fingertips returned to one dusky, puckered nipple. His other hand encircled her waist and pushed her back against the kitchen table. “Better?”
She parted her lips, but nothing came out, and somehow that was sexier than if she’d spoken. His pulse beat an insistent tattoo. Touch, feel, taste. Repeat. On the table sat the remains of the gelato, now softened to a semi-frozen soup. He placed the flat side of the spoon against her breast and watched as rivulets of dairy dripped, catching in beads of sweet on her lovely peak.
“Oh,” she said as he traced circles around her beaded nipple, captivated by how her breasts heaved with every sinuous slide of the stainless steel. Her breaths came in short tugs.
“Too cold?” he asked gently. Her fingers splayed at the nape of his neck and she jutted her breasts toward his waiting mouth. Her eyes widened by slow degrees and pleaded with him to give her what she needed. What they both needed.
He licked her breast, a long, lazy ice-cream cone lick, and vaguely registered her soft gasp followed by a heartfelt moan. The gelato tasted great. She tasted better.
The clatter as the spoon hit the floor set off a vibration in his marrow and deep-seated hunger skyrocketed inside him. He plumped her breast with his hand and took it in his mouth. He licked, sucked, and owned one hard peak then switched to the other. Gotta play fair. Her taste, along with every one of her moans travelled a direct route to his thrumming erection.
Panting, he traced his tongue along the soft hollow of her throat. “Where else does it hurt?”
She grasped his hand and pressed it between her legs, over her skirt. He pushed the heel flat and her legs parted, the warmth of her sex pulsing through the fabric. Not enough. He needed skin. He bunched her skirt up and, slow as cold honey, glided his hand along her thigh.
“Please,” she moaned.
“I know, love. I'm going to take care of you.” As he stroked over her undies, they dampened under his touch. He slipped a finger past the edge and a strange sound that had caught in his throat croaked out.
Christ, she was so wet.
The urge to be inside her, to feel her muscles grasping and milking him, almost undid him but he tamped that down. This wasn't about his needs. He had little to offer her beyond his smile and his clever hands, but he could give her this even when he wanted so much more.
“Lili, you are the hottest thing I've ever seen,” he murmured against her lips, wishing desperately that it was a lie. He wished there’d been past lovers who got his engine running like this, other potential bedmates he could anticipate with pleasure.
He wished it wasn’t her because it felt like he’d already lost.
Twenty-Two
Lili loved Jack's hands. How their coarseness rasped her nipples. How their calluses imprinted against the soft skin of her thighs. And how those rough-cast fingers were causing a well of liquid trouble in her panties. With just a couple of delicious strokes, the pulse between her legs had boosted from dull to knife-sharp. She wondered if there was anything those talented hands couldn't do.
Her eyelids felt heavy and she fought to keep them open. Holding onto his penetrating gaze was as sexy as what he was doing down below. She had never experienced that kind of intensity in a man. He burned her alive with every look.
