Page 104 of Peace Under Fire

“Might want to hold off on that for a bit.” His voice was hoarse, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. “Much more pleasure and I’m liable to come all over your hand.”

If he thought the warning would dissuade her, boy was he wrong. The quest to make him come took over. “But I want to do that for you.”

He’d already given her so much—confidence in her kissing skills, trust in her attractiveness. But she wanted even more. She wanted to know how to bring him pleasure. She wanted the memory of him coming beneath the slide of her hand, and mouth, and body.

“Take off your shirt then. I want to fill my hands with those gorgeous tits while you work my cock.” He lifted his torso and shoved a pillow beneath his shoulders as she stripped off her sweater. “That’s it,” he rasped, an even deeper shade of red climbing his cheeks.

She wasn’t wearing a bra, so when she’d removed the sweater, her breasts were left dangling. But they were above his straining penis, nowhere near his mouth.

“Perfect.” His fingers closed over her nipples, rolling them between his fingers and thumbs.

The feel of his callused fingers pinching her hard nipples sent ripples of electricity through her breasts and into her spine. The flesh between her legs heated and swelled. Absorbed by the intensity of the tingles consuming her, her hand fell still. He dropped his left hand and closed it around the fingers she still had stretched around his shaft.

“Like this.” His hand tightened, silently illustrating the amount of pressure he wanted. He slowly moved her hand from the base of his shaft, back up to the wedge-shaped head. He increased the speed of the stroking as she grew more comfortable with her grip. “Jesus, baby. Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand left hers and returned to her peaked nipples.

Fascinated by the sight below her, Mandy watched his penis darken and strain. Below and above her hand, the veins bulged out even more. A bead of moisture seeped out the slit in the ruddy head. She’d never felt more powerful than she did at that moment, watching as she brought this hard, strong man closer and closer to climax.

Heat and tension settled deep between her thighs. She clenched the muscles of her pussy to hold the moisture at bay.

He groaned, his eyes closed, face hard, pelvis partially lifting off the couch. “Baby, we’re about to lift off.”

His hands dropped from her breasts and a white, viscous substance erupted from him, splattering on his rigid belly. There wasn’t nearly as much cum as she’d expected—more than a teaspoon but less than a tablespoon. And it had a mild kind of ammonia smell, like bleach or something.

He sighed, stirring beneath her, and she let go of his softening penis. Slowly his eyes opened, the haziness giving way to alertness. His hand lifted, his thumb tracing her mouth. She opened her lips and drew his finger inside where she delicately suckled on it.

“Can I return the favor?” he asked, his free hand lifting to gently squeeze her breast.

She made a sound that vaguely indicated agreement and continued sucking on his thumb. He slipped his thumb from her mouth—darn it—and both hands moved to the snap at the top of her jeans.

He unsnapped her pants and hesitated, his hand tucked into the fly, burning against the sensitive skin of her lower belly. “You okay with this, babe?”

She sucked in a startled breath as the heat of his hand burned against her skin, adding to the wetness and tension churning below. She knew from the romance books she’d read that arousal for women meant copious amounts of fluid, as a woman’s body prepared itself for penetration. In the books, the hero always got turned on by how wet his woman got for him. But that was fiction, right? In real life, did men find that attractive? It seemed embarrassing to her.

As always, he picked up on her diffidence. His hand retreated up her belly. “It’s okay. We don’t—”

“It’s just that…” she pushed the rest of it out in a rush. “I’m wet down there.”

His hand froze and then a chuckle rumbled up his throat. “You’re supposed to be, baby.” Another rumbling laugh. “That’s good news. It means were doing things right.”

“Okay,” she forced herself to relax. There was a definite pleased tone to his voice. Apparently, all those romance books weren’t so far off.

He pushed her jeans down farther, until they sat low across her thighs, just above her knees. She caught her breath and held it as his hand slid beneath her panties and then between her thighs. Before she had a chance to brace herself, he traced the length of her slit. She jolted beneath the delicate contact, her heart pounding as hard as it had during that trek up the Refuge trail when she’d finally come clean with him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he said, his tone soothing. “We can stop any time you want. No rush here.” His hand remained still, as though waiting for a sign from her.

She drew in a shaky breath and shimmied her hips slightly, gasping as his finger moved again, rubbing against her pussy’s lips. He stroked again, this time slipping his finger into her wetness.

Holy Mother—she whimpered, arching her back, her hips moving before she could stop them, wanting more. Wanting him to go deeper and fill the aching, swollen void inside her.

“Christ, baby, that’s right. You’re so wet for me. So perfect.”

His comment about how wet she was registered, but she was too focused on what his fingers were doing, how every stroke inside of her was building the heat and wetness and escalating tension.

“Lean down, baby,” he cajoled, his voice raspy and thick.

When she leaned forward, bracing her hands on his hot, tanned chest, he used the hand between her legs to scoot her up higher. She expected him to latch onto her breasts, as he seemed to find them appealing. Instead, his lips brushed against the hollow of her neck and stopped to suckle.

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