Page 36 of Long Way Down

Melissa initiated the kiss, but after a beat of surprise, and a quick gasp through his nose, Pongo took over.

He gripped the narrowest part of her waist, thumb pressing hard in the soft skin just under her rib. With his other hand, he cupped her nape, fingers curling in her hair, tightening, holding. He tipped her head back a fraction, just far enough for them both to take a breath – ragged on her part, his eyes flashing, briefly – before pressing back in at a better angle, their lips slotting together as if made for it.

Yes, Melissa thought, a desperate pang of inner triumph, and wrapped her arms around his neck. The hold on her waist urged her in closer, until they were pressed together, front to front, and she had to tip her head all the way back in his grasp.

It was something he’d done from their first night together: get her in as close as possible. He’d never been content with discrete, with carefully-placed touches here and there designed to feel good but without the clumsy intimacy of closeness. He’d dragged her in until she could feel just how hard and hot he was between her thighs and said, “What’re you doing all the way over there?” A little thing. A preference, really. But it saidI’m not afraid to get close to you, and it did things to her.

Now, he breached her lips with a sly flex of his tongue, a stroke against her own, thumb pressing at the hinge of her jaw to urge her to open to him. The hand at her waist slid to her back, and then lower, over the curve of her ass. His middle finger landed on the center seam and followed it down, down, between her legs, so he was putting pressure on her sex from behind.

She shifted to give him better access, feet spreading wider, pressing up on her very tippy toes and angling her hips. She felt him smile into the kiss, lips curving against hers. Cocky. Pleased with himself. She wanted to scowl at him over the self-satisfied hum he pressed into her mouth.

But later.

She unwound her arms in favor of running her hands across his shoulders, down his chest, and down his sides. He had far too many layers on, but she could feel his trim, muscular shape beneath, and the layers of cloth and leather became a sort of tease, anticipation mounting along with the heat in her belly.

She plucked up the hem of his hoodie and slipped her hands beneath it and his undershirt. She reached warm, smooth skin, and traced upward, over abs that leapt under her touch, and ribs fleshed with firm, flexing muscle.

“Yeah,” he murmured against her lips when she tweaked his nipples. “There she is. All ready for me.”

He wasinfuriating. But he also pressed in hard with the hand between her legs and hoisted her up the thigh he pushed forward for her to straddle. Encouraged her hips into little abortive back and forth motions, so she was grinding against his denim-covered quad. His chuckle was low, throaty, and pleased.

She let herself enjoy it a moment. He’d urged her to do so from the very start of their relationship.You don’t gotta be in a rush all the time, baby. The whole trip’s fun if you learn to let go a little. He kissed the side of her neck and encouraged her.

Let go a little. She let her eyes fall shut and let him hold her up. Let herself chase the friction along the center seam of her jeans, sex slicking and breaths coming quicker as she chased the teasing sparks of pleasure.

He nibbled along her pulse point, lips sucking wet at sensitive, easily-bruised skin.

“Pongo…don’t,” she murmured, even as she ground her hips in circles and sank her nails into the skin of his waist, under his clothes. Both of them leaving marks on each other – marks that, though she would never admit it to him, she would look at later in the mirror and touch with careful fingertips to inspire the ghostly thrill of memory.

“You know you like it,” he said, lips against her ear, breath hot inside it.

Her next protest turned to a curse when he shifted his thigh, pressing up higher, hitting herright there.

He bit lightly at the top of her ear, and shimmied his hand down the waistband of her jeans in the back, so his fingers stroked over the top of her ass. “You wet?” he asked, and his voice had taken on that dark, velvet quality it donned when they were like this. Smoky and rough-edged, sinful in a way his normal speaking voice never was. “You wet for me, baby?”

Lying seemed counterproductive to what she wanted most right now. “Yeah. I’m–” A gasp, as he changed the angle of his thigh again,draggedit against her through her jeans. “Yeah. God. Please.”

He took her by both hips and set her back from him, which was intolerable. She wouldn’t be proud, later, of the way she hooked her hands in his waistband and tried to pull him back. But he grinned, and kissed her harsh and sloppy on the mouth, and then turned her around so she faced away from him.

“Put your hands on the counter,” he said, andoh, she knew what that meant.

She took a firm grip on the edge of the butcher block and shivered in anticipation. Pongo stepped in close behind her, radiating heat; she could sense their height difference, feel his breath strike the back of her neck, where her hair parted and swept forward off of it. He didn’t touch her, at first: instead, she heard the whisper of leather and fabric that meant he was stripping to the waist, and she closed her eyes and clenched her hands tight – clenched down lower, too, throbbing between her legs and ready for him already.

But she’d learned it was always better if she didn’t rush him. He was as good with his mouth, and his hands, and his voice as he was with his cock. Sex, he was teaching her, much to her chagrin, wasn’t meant to be a race to orgasm. He could stretch her pleasure out for hours, drawing her to peak after peak, winding her tighter and tighter in the valleys between.

When he finally touched her, it was lightly. Teasing, really. He inched up her shirt and traced the exposed skin there with his fingertips, back and forth above her waistband.

Get on with it, she wanted to snap, but bit her tongue, fingers flexing on the counter, thighs squeezing together.

He noticed. “Heh. You excited?”

She couldn’t respond without insulting him, and he seemed to know it, chuckling to himself as his touch skimmed around the front of her waistband and he finally thumbed the button open with a quick, deft flick. He eased the zipper down and slipped a hand inside, cupped her through her panties. “Damn,” he murmured. “Youarewet.” His thumb worked tight little circles over her clit, and her hips jerked forward, chasing the touch. “Easy, easy. I got you.”

But the words were soothing, and not mocking, this time. The amusement had bled out of his voice. His touch was sure, now, and no longer teasing as he pushed her jeans and panties down her hips and shoved them to the floor.

She wanted to take them off, to wrestle with her boots and step out of the pooled fabric. But he knelt down behind her before she could, urged her legs as wide apart as they could with her jeans around her ankles, and ran his hands up the insides of her thighs. Cool air touched her damp sex – before the flat of his tongue pressed hot against it.

She didn’t try to swallow that sound that built in her throat. Let her head fall forward, hair dangling in a curtain around her face, and moaned, low and needy, beyond self-consciousness, as Pongo set to work. Somewhere in the back of her mind, far detached from the physical moment, she was laughing hysterically over the dog comparisons, given how good he was with his tongue; but there was nothing funny about it right now, the way his head ducked forward between her legs and he licked her top to bottom with firm pressure, lapping up the slick that had built between her lips. His shoulders snugged up against the backs of her thighs. He spread her with his thumbs, and dipped his tongue inside her.