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Chapter Eleven
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“No!”
Tracy shivered uncontrollably. He wasn’t there anymore. Not inside her, not even next to her. The walls of her core clenched from the loss. Her inner thighs ached, needing his to spread them again.
Confusion hit—followed at once by indignation. She drilled him with the force of both, finally propelling up then leaning on her elbows.
“John? What the hell?”
“Don’t. Move.”
He bolted off the bed before she could process the command. Not that he made it easy, suddenly shucking all the way out of his pants.
Holy. God.
In a life full of jaw-dropping moments, Tracy was certain this one was already on the Top Ten list. He was more magnificent than she’d anticipated, with toned hips dipping in before the flare of his taut ass and bold thighs. They weren’t “gym thighs”, either. The striations in his legs could only have been developed from years of brutal training and fierce team missions. But all of that was just a prelude to the main focal point. His penis, broad and proud, was the color of rich bourbon, supported by balls in a taut sac. The tip bobbed toward the rippled perfection of his abdomen, exposed in all its glory when he crisscrossed his arms then peeled away the T-shirt, as well.
Before she could help it, Tracy profusely wetted her lips. “Not. Moving,” she managed to rasp in response to his order—and meant it. Especially if this was the view she received as her obedience reward.
“You will be in a minute.” Franz faced her again. His gaze turned to smoke as it roamed the length of her body. Wetting his own lips, he fisted his gorgeous erection. “You’ll be moving in ways you never thought of, woman.”
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It became a necessary mantra in response to his scotch-smooth voice. The tone completed the whisky spectrum of his sexiness, and now she couldn’t wait to get bat shit drunk on him…
Meaning she nearly moaned aloud as he disappeared into the bathroom.
What the hell now?
Her answer came quickly—in the form of distinct sounds. The opening of a cabinet. His rustling hand. His rough snort of victory. The rip of a foil wrapper.
He swooped back around the corner like he’d actually sprung dragon wings and was coming in for a landing. A cocky smile now curled his lips—and an unwrapped condom was perched between two of his long fingers.
“Thank the gods for dudes who use rubbers for more than one purpose.”
Tracy cocked her head. Snuck a wry glance up at him. “Do I even want to know the details about that?”
A small tic vibrated his jaw. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you like to play with clean toys.”
She dropped her gaze—while her heart bypassed a few beats. The subtle pause he took before his last word, then the way he emphasized it with a vat of sensual intent, didn’t exactly fill her vision with alphabet blocks and Tinker Toys to mind.
It did give her inspiration for a comeback feeling just as sexy—and a little scary.
“All kittens love toys, don’t they?”
The good kind of scary.
Franz’s nostrils flared. His lips parted, setting free a heavy hiss. The moment the sound hit the air, Tracy’s nipples tightened again. She sat up, using the motion to scissor her legs, granting pitifully little relief to the pressure pulsing anew between her thighs. He only worsened the ordeal with his sudden lunge over, securing her by one of her wrists, yanking her toward the edge of the bed.
Holy hell.
How this man could go from flirty rogue one moment to fierce conqueror the next…it was as crazy as contemplating Texas weather changes and just as idiotic to fight. As if she even wanted to. The weather always gave her an excuse to just accept. To just embrace. To just surrender…
