Page 24 of Taken By the Bounty Hunter

“Me first? What do you mean?”

It finally occurs to me, amid this wild fog of lust that’s taken over my brain, that perhaps she’s never experienced an orgasm before.

“Have you ever touched yourself, Georgie?”

She pulls away, and her brows come together. “Touched myself?”

“Did you ever find yourself thinking about someone late at night, alone in your bed?” I whisper against her throat. “And you couldn’t keep your hands from finding their way down between your legs to get some relief?”

I can’t decide if Georgie’s pink cheeks are a sign that she has done this before and felt ashamed of it, or if I’ve scandalized her.

Slowly, she shakes her head but doesn’t look away.

“Do you trust me?”

“Completely, Jefferson.”

With a whimper, she stops caressing my crotch and circles her arms around my shoulders.

She gasps, her mouth agape in response to the touch of my hand between her legs. “Oh…”

My hand delivers slow strokes, and I keep her mouth busy with my kiss.

“Is this good?” I grit out, fighting the urge to pop open the opposite strap of her overalls.

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

Cupping her pussy, I rub firmly over the front of it, finding just the right spot to make her gasp. To make her feel good enough to let go of what ails her.

“Oh my god, that feels good…”

My voice is an uncontrollable growl against her throat. “Is it making you wet, sweetheart?”

“Yes!”

I grind my palm harder over the material, barely believing she’s so sensitive that she’s enjoying this through her clothes.

Georgie shocks me when she comes with a loud cry, her thighs clenching, her back arching, her breast grazing my chin.

“That’s it…good girl…that’s my girl…come for me…I barely have to touch you to make you come.”

Her breath comes in short gasps as she rides out her first climax, eventually softening once more and collapsing in my arms.

“Oh…my…god.”

“How do you feel?”

She sighs. “That was…you were…”

All I can do is give a satisfied hum, inhaling the scent at the base of her neck.

We both freeze at the sound of gravel in the alleyway, followed by the chirp of a car’s automatic locks being activated.

“Shit,” I hiss as a pair of monstrous feet bound up the rickety back stairs.

Georgie slides off my lap, and I scramble to help her adjust her bra, shirt, and the strap of her overalls.

Two seconds later, Joaquin bursts through the door with three paper bags.

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