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“Jack,” she whispered, shifting her weight to allow him access. She needed the full Jack experience, which meant her underwear had to go. Please say I didn’t wear one of my Granny pairs. Through eyes blurred with desire, she caught a glimpse of her lace-trimmed hipster as Jack pulled it down past her knees and she kicked them off. Not her sexiest pair, but, phew.
He pushed her skirt up around her hips, giving them both a front-row view. Yes. Battling to focus, she watched as he coiled a finger in her curls, soaked with anticipation. He ran a solitary finger through her slick heat. Just one, a tease to let her know he was in control, that he had her pleasure in the palm of his hand. A shudder of pure bliss coursed through her, then more fingers, rubbing and caressing. She moaned, deep and primal, because she had lost all self-restraint and it was pointless to pretend otherwise.
“Yes, yes. So good.” It was about to get more so. He slipped a finger inside her and hooked it, honing in on her spot. A wave of lust slammed her. After a minute of searing heat, he pressed another finger and slid it in, stretching her exquisitely tight. And yes, two fingers were most definitely better than one. His thumb feathered her clit. It felt so right, his fingers sliding in and out of her, his thumb creating delicious friction, his dark eyes wide and watching her like he was afraid of missing something. And watching him watch her was the biggest turn on of all.
Until he started in on the French.
She didn't need to understand it to know he was telling her things he might never say in English. Maybe they were romantic. She hoped they were filthy.
With every motion, with every secret word he whispered, her skin tightened. Blood rushed from her head to below her waist. Spirals wound down her belly. She screamed his name, begging him to finish her, but he drew it out, slowing and teasing, stopping short of that peak she was so desperate to reach.
She dug her nails into his tattooed bicep, desperate to make her mark as indelible as the ink on his skin. He wouldn't forget her. Still, he taunted her with those slow fingers. Slow, slow, so damn slow. Fisting his hair, she yanked it hard and was rewarded with a grunt, but no upping in his pace. The bastard’s mouth found hers again, hot and demanding, stealing her breath. A blast of sugar and summer heat that sparked her ecstasy and ignited her frustration into fury.
So she bit him.
He didn’t make a sound, but his mouth, the bottom lip pink and slightly swollen, curved into a carnal grin. He liked it. Oh God, he did, and she liked that he liked it.
Her hips thrust forward in blatant appeal and everything slowed, and then sped up again.
So close. He withdrew his fingers and applied them where she needed it most, sliding through her wetness, stroking her harder and faster. Her blood pounded and surged, sending her lurching out of control. Jack's devil smile widened. A smile made for her. A smile that made her come so hard, she kicked his shin. He yelped.
Good.
Despite the violent conclusion, his hand cupped her gently, absorbing her shivery shudders, shocking her with his tenderness. Hot tears sprang unbidden, and she buried her face in the warmth of his shoulder trying to hide her churning emotion. He kissed her hair. He held her tight. He gave her the time she needed to descend.
The tide of their breathing rocked in a rhythmic whisper, just the two of them distilled to this single moment. She couldn't remember the last time an orgasm had been that explosive.
Probably never, but she preferred the illusion that it had been so good it had messed with her recall. The alternative—that the memory of every man before him had crumbled to dust—was just too much to comprehend.
Eventually he raised her chin with his finger and dropped a kiss on her nose. “I know it’s been a rough day, love.”
In his voice, she heard compassion she didn’t deserve and kindness she had never received from any other man. Jack Kilroy might have just performed a miracle for her physical well-being, but he was big, bad and dangerous for her mental state.
“I’m not used to being the center of attention,” she said. “It doesn’t sit so well with me.” A flicker of something hard gave way to a smile that would make the angels sing.
“Well, since about three a.m. yesterday morning, you’ve been the center of my attention. And I intend to keep you right where I can see you.”
Her heart lifted clear through the roof, and she couldn’t let such a lovely declaration go unrewarded. Her lips brushed against the hard planes of his face, taking momentary rest stops on those rock-hewn cheekbones. Twelve freckles—no, thirteen—lay scattered like a starry constellation across his nose. She wanted to memorize every beautiful smudge and contour because, after tonight, she would only have souvenir snapshots. Minutes passed while they slanted to find the best angles, exploring earlobes and eyelids, necks and jaws, and each time their mouths crossed paths, they whimpered in surprise that a kiss could improve with practice.
She combed through his silken hair until she found the ridge of his welt. “How’s your head?”
“Muddled.”
She traced a finger along his swollen lip. “And this?”
He smiled. “That was hot but in the future, we'll have to negotiate the rough stuff. I can't risk anything happening to my face. It’s my ticket to fame and fortune.”
“Fathead,” she said gently, and kissed him to stop any more talk about the future.
Moving his hand back under her skirt, he shaped her butt, his calluses brushing fiery tingles across her skin. “I adore this sweet arse of yours.”
Arse. Why did that word sound hotter and dirtier than ‘ass’? It must be down to the lips that formed it, the sonorous bass that spoke it. He squeezed one sweet arse cheek, making her mewl. She loved when a man gave her booty the attention it deserved, though with the kind of women Jack dated, she wouldn’t have had him pegged for an ass, or arse, man. For some reason, that made her giggle.
“What’s so funny?” It came out garbled because his hot mouth was sucking on the pulse at her throat, but she got the gist.
“I'm not exactly your type,” she murmured in his ear.
“This should be good. Tell me what’s my type, then.”
