Page 105 of Lone Star

Oh, she thought.Oh, wow,yes.

“Not yet, baby,” he said, and bent to kiss her neck.

She tipped her head to the side, offering him better access, rewarded by the damp softness of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, and then the sharp sting of his teeth, as he bit her, lightly, right over her pulse. She made another sound, sucked in a breath, and he chuckled again, the rumble of it moving through her throat and down to her breastbone; her nipples hardened to tight, aching points inside her bra, and she wanted it off; wanted everything off both of them.

But that wasn’t the game they were playing tonight. Now, she could only lean back against the door and bask in the sensation, limbs restless, fingers curling, as he kissed and nipped a path up to her earlobe, and then sucked that into the heat of his mouth.

“Candy,” she murmured, not even sure what she was asking, just wanting to say his name.

He pressed a butterfly kiss to the shell of her ear, and whispered into it. “You getting restless, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.” And this time, it had nothing to do with wanting to work.

“I’m sorry,” he said, without an ounce of sincerity.

One of his hands opened on her wrist, and moved slowly, slowly down the tender inside of her forearm, a firm, methodical caress, unhurried, that left her trembling. It was the anticipation, as his thumb grazed the knob of her elbow, as he shifted up the inside of her biceps. The promise of where he was heading.

She was wearing a soft flannel shirt, unbuttoned, and he teased it off her shoulder. Played with the strap of her tank top a moment. Then, just as purposeful, slipped his whole hand down into the scooped neck, and cupped her breast.

Please, she thought, and bit her lip to keep from voicing it, as his thumb rasped her nipple through the satin of her bra.

“What do you want?” he murmured, pressing kisses to her jaw. “What do you need, baby? This?” He pushed down the cup of her bra and took her bare breast in his hand, finally.

She arched into his touch, overstimulated, needy.

He chuckled, and pinched her nipple between thumb and forefinger, whispering against the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah, you like that.”

“Please,” she said, out loud this time.

“Damn, baby.” He kissed her mouth again, deep, languid, thorough.

And he released her other wrist so he could push her shirt back off that shoulder, too; push her undershirt and bra down, and touch her other breast.

He was good at this; God was he good at it. He kissed her into oblivion, and plucked at her nipples, massaged her breasts with just enough force to leave her pushing her chest shamelessly into his hands, panting against his mouth.

She actually whimpered when he pulled back.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, and pushed her flannel shirt totally off. She lifted her arms readily when he pulled her tank top over her head. And then his expert fingers were at the clasp of her bra, and then she was bare, and he ducked his head, and took one of her nipples into his mouth.

He’d worked her up so thoroughly that the sensation – the heat of his mouth, the faint scrape of his teeth – was almost startling. She clutched at his hair, held him to her, breathing fast and harsh through her mouth. She tried to say his name again, but her tongue wouldn’t work, and so she let the door hold her – the door and the wild strength of his hands on her waist – as he suckled at one breast, and then the other; until she was damp, and red, and aching.

She wetness gather between her legs; felt it soak through her panties, her pulse pounding in her sex. She needed him. Needed himnow.

But he was hellbent on taking his time. He nosed gently at the undersides of her breasts, and he dropped a slow trail of kisses down her stomach, down to her waistband, and opened it with teasing slowness. He followed the path of the zipper; nosed at her curls through her panties. Worked her jeans down off her hips on one side, and then the other.

“Candy,” she finally managed to pant. Her legs shook, and she gripped his hair so tight it had to hurt.

He chuckled, breath hot through the cotton that covered her. “We’re getting there, don’t worry.”

She lifted her legs in turn at his urging, and the damned jeans were finally off. He slipped both hands beneath the waistband of her panties, in the back, cupping her ass, petting her, before finally skimming them down to her ankles so she could step free.

Then she was naked, and he was fully clothed.

He stood, suddenly, a fast surge of movement, and pressed the whole hard, strong, masculine line of his body against her – pinning her even more thoroughly against the door. The denim of his jeans rasped against the tender, bare skin of her legs; the cold buttons of his flannel dug into her stomach. The contradiction, the imbalance of it, drover her pulse to new heights. She felt small, and fragile, and feminine – and none of those things felt like a fault or a threat now. They felt like great offerings, like what he needed now, in this moment.

He ducked his face against her throat and inhaled; breathed in the scent of her.

What do I smell like?she thought wildly. He smelled like leather, and smoke, and Scotch, and dust, and the wild outdoors. Like danger, and freedom, and every good thing she’d ever wanted.

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