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She died and was reborn a better person when he licked a circle around her nipple and then latched on to suck. “Oh God!”
Why did that feel so good? Like it had the power to heal wounds, right wrongs and stop time. Why was the vision of him still in most of the suit he’d worn to seduce millions of dollars from fans and donors excite her so much? She knew how celebrity worked, a manipulation, a chimera, and yet this was the most real experience she’d ever had naked. By the time he moved to the other nipple, she’d managed to haul his shirt out of his pants and up his back till she could get her hands on his skin and she was suspended in a haze of need that had its own language of nonsense words.
When he pulled off, she let go a string of protests that made him laugh. They jammed in her throat when he sat back on his heels and contemplated the G-string. He didn’t have to tell her she was wet. She could feel it, smell it. He told her anyway with something like awe in his voice.
Eyes down, a hand brushing over her stomach, he followed up with, “These are pretty, but your pussy is prettier. They have to go.”
He couldn’t rip them off too soon for her liking. She propped herself up on her elbows to watch.
That’s not what he did. He simply yanked them aside and ran a finger through her folds, and before she could get the appropriate delighted swear word out he did the same with his tongue and rendered her speechless, although she managed to muster a happy squeal when he put his teeth to the sheer fabric and then ripped it apart with his thumbs.
What she felt when he slid the whole ruined affair down her legs was a kind of savage joy. He was as skilled at sex as his looks promised, and his public image suggested, and they weren’t at the good part yet.
“Doing okay?” he said with a sly grin and an eyebrow quirk.
“Preparing to hyperventilate.”
“In three.” He grabbed her ankles and dragged her down the bed till he had her positioned right where he wanted her. “Two.” He smoothed his hands up her legs from her shins to her inner thighs and lowered his shoulders between them. He might’ve said one, but he had had his mouth full doing something else. All she heard was her own shocked exhalation and the wet click of his tongue.
He made her come so quickly, it was minor league disappointing for all of two seconds. She could’ve taken a whole lot more of his clever mouth, but the sound of his belt clinking, his zipper lowering, zzt, zzt, zzt, swamped that sense.
“That was very nice,” he said, hand in his pocket, then teeth to the condom wrapper.
The polite thing to do was to help out, but she wasn’t sure her limbs were back online with her brain. “Better than nice.” Good to know her language center had clicked into place.
He wore black briefs and though his shirt was in the way, she got a quick glimpse of his package. It was enough to fire all the right nerve endings and get her sitting so she could take the condom packet from his hand. Both of them watched as he rolled his briefs down and took hold of his cock.
He grunted when she knocked his hand aside to wrap his length in her fingers and squeeze lightly. “This will get messy quick if you keep doing that. I want to come inside you.”
An excellent idea. She made quick work of the condom though her hands shook. It was only sensible to anchor them in his hair as he pushed her back into the bed and notched himself in place. So ready, she was so ready, her body ached, but he didn’t push inside even when she tried to encourage him with her hands inside his briefs and a jerk of her hips.
“Think fast, gorgeous. Where do you want to be? Under, over, on your hands and knees, in my lap?”
A sex smorgasbord. Choice paralysis.
“We’re going to get to it all, but after this round, the clothes go. I want my skin sliding over your skin and nothing but precaution and sweat between us.”
Haydn Delany was made from superlative genes and the best ideas. “Like this. I want to watch you.”
“If you can keep your eyes open, I’m doing it wrong.”
He did it so right. Testing her wetness with his fingers, then letting her adjust as he pushed inside, bracketing her body with his forearms and sending her blind with drugging kisses and hot words.
“You feel fucking good, Teela. The way you smell, the way you want this. Your goddamn sexy fucking legs.”
Those legs were wrapped over his arse, and her eyes were jammed shut, her sense of touch doing all the heavy lifting, from the shower of pinpricks across her scalp to the tension in her toes. Every time he thrust, she registered a new sensation, from the roughness of his clothes on her skin and the smell of clean cotton, to the pressure of his hands gripping hers, until all the sharp and sweet and widening ripples coalesced inside her and she shook through her release.
“Fuck, yes,” he said, and after several more thrusts and it was his turn to tremble.
It was all so amazingly good, it simply had to be imaginary.
FOUR
No question about it. Sex with Teela Secret Weapon Carpenter was a thousand times better than surfing. Except in one respect. His fucking clothes.
She wasn’t a figment of Haydn’s imagination anymore. She was sweat on his shirtfront and a tight silk cocoon for his cock and a compulsion to kiss and lick and suck her skin that he couldn’t indulge thoroughly enough because he was twisted up in suit pants and briefs, shirt and socks.
He wanted to feel her legs right alongside his, feel her heart beat without a layer of crushed cotton between them. Fold her into his arms and chest while they drifted in the afterglow, which meant he had to move now.
