Page 8 of Leaving Lando

“I was calling Jade!” I yell.

“It’d take her at least fifteen minutes to reach you, which is fifteen minutes too long. Why the fuck didn’t you just wait there and catch a ride with Carlo?”

I cannot possibly explain to him the painful need his cousins and their wives have somehow stirred in me. He wouldn’t understand it, and even if he did, he’s already made clear that he’s going to deny me the solution. So I go on the offensive.

“None of your business.” I drag at the door handle, to no avail. “Unlock the fucking truck!”

Lando hauls me around to face him. My arms lash out without any conscious intention on my part, and one of my flailing fists strikes a glancing blow off his chin.

His eyes go hot. Then he yanks me into his arms and his mouth crashes down on mine.

I shove at him, or try to. As soon as my hands spread across his broad chest, they grab his shirt, pulling him closer, then slide around to his back, and under the fabric, until I’m touching his bare skin.

It’s smooth and warm, the muscle beneath it tantalizing. My nails dig in; Lando growls, and my nipples go hard. I’m dizzy, ravenous, kissing him back like the starving woman I am, desperate for more.

One of his hands cradles the back of my neck, his fingers in my hair, against my scalp. You could map my nervous system by all the tingles running from my head to my nipples, to my clit, the tips of my fingers and toes, and back again.

His other hand dives under my shirt to cup one breast. He palms it, then tweaks the nipple. I gasp, then moan, and that fast my panties are soaked.

Lando deepens the kiss, his tongue thrusting into my mouth in a rhythm that drives me mad. I want to take his hand and move it, but then he does it without prompting, as if reading my desire through my heated skin.

One more pluck at my nipple, and then he presses me back against the bench seat, still kissing me, and his hand skims my belly until his fingers are under the waistband of my jeans, and then his hand is inside my panties and he’s cupping me. Parting my slick folds, he pushes a finger inside me, his thumb circling my clit.

I make frantic noises deep in my throat, my body as taut as a bowstring. Lando works another finger inside me, pumping them in and out, driving me to the edge. His thumb presses my clit, rolls, and presses again, and I shatter.

He swallows my cries. His hand is driving me up again when his phone rings.

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