by Unknown
A slow smile spread across his face and he started to lean forward. He couldn’t help himself. Even when she pulled back and wariness crept into her eyes, he didn’t stop.
Reaching out, he cupped the back of her head in the palm of his hand, his fingers weaving into the silky strands of her chestnut hair. He pulled her toward him, and despite the guardedness in her expression, she didn’t balk.
His lips brushed hers, feather-light, once, twice, three times. Her lashes fluttered closed and a breath of surrender rushed from her lungs.
He was pretty close to surrendering himself. She tasted of the Chinese buffet they’d gobbled down earlier, and the gentle mix of sweet and spicy made him hungry all over again—but not for food.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her mouth.
His words must have surprised her because she went slack beneath him. Silently and with great reverence, he opened his mouth over hers, slid his tongue between her warm lips, and kissed her until steam poured out both their ears.
Row 14
Ronnie couldn’t decide if she was more shocked by Dylan’s whispered thank-you or by the unexpected kiss that was even now turning from soft and easy to firm and intense.
It felt so peculiar going from being completely distraught over having lost this latest job opportunity to having her pulse kick up and all pertinent hormones make a run for the southern border, but that seemed to be the effect he had on her.
One minute, tears and fury, next minute, Ride me, cowboy!
She moaned beneath his mouth, letting her arms wrap more securely around his shoulders and unlocking her ankles from their crossed position to open wider and invite him into the cradle of her thighs.
This was a bad idea. She knew it. Her brain was telling her to stop, to shut him down and hustle him out the door before things went any farther.
But her body . . . oh, her body was a weak, treacherous bitch. It wanted more of exactly what Dylan was giving her. What she knew from delightful experience that he could give her again and again all through the night.
His hand crept up to cup her breast and fondle the swelling point of her nipple through the soft cotton material of her pajama top.
And there went all of that nice, rational lucidity. Blip, bloop, blam, gone were all of her lovely sense and sensibilities, flying right out the window.
So what did it matter? One more night. One more bout of rock-my-world, trip-the-light-fantastic sex. She could totally put her foot down tomorrow and call a stop to any further intimate relations with the man she loved to hate.
She could.
She would.
But for now . . .
“Mmm, that feels good,” she murmured as he released her mouth and began kissing a path down the side of her throat. At the same time, his fingers continued to flutter and tweak the tips of her breasts.
“How about this?” he asked, sliding the hand that had been at the back of her head down between her legs. He cupped her mound and applied a gentle pressure that had her wiggling in place.
It felt better than good . . . amazing, fantastic, phenomenal would have been a better description . . . and she wished for magical forces that would have allowed her to blink or snap or wiggle her nose and render both their clothes nonexistent.
But he’d done this to her before . . . stroked and caressed, kissed and enticed. Basically swept in, stunned her with his astounding powers of foreplay, and left her dazed, sated, and confused.
Time for a little payback.
It wasn’t easy, what with his hand buried in her crotch and his fingers starting to dance in a way she really wanted to beg him to stick with until the bitter end, but she took a deep breath, pulled back as far as the arm of the couch would allow, and said, “Wait.”
The speed with which he stopped was almost amusing. It was like one of those “sex on campus” instructional videos where they showed examples of green-light/red-light behavior.
“Something wrong?” he asked, and only the heaving of his chest and tautly defined muscles of his throat belied just how much control he was exerting to not continue touching her.
Oh, she was going to enjoy this.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” she told him, straining not to grin, even though one was struggling to get loose.
Giving his chest a little shove, she pushed him away, then swung out from under him and got to her feet beside the couch. Dylan’s face fell, and he turned to collapse against the sofa back.
He perked up, though, when she crossed her arms in front of her and tugged the hem of her pajama top straight up over her head. A second later, she shrugged out of the bottoms and kicked them aside, too.
Completely naked, she stood in front of him, watching his eyes darken with desire and the already impressive tenting behind the zipper of his jeans swell even larger.
“I thought . . .” His voice cracked and he had to stop, swallow, and start again. “I thought you weren’t interested.”
“What gave you that idea?” she asked cheekily, resting a hand at her waist and cocking her hip to one side.
His brows rose. “You. You said stop.”
“No,” she corrected him, striding the step or two forward to reach him and climbing onto the couch, straddling him with one knee on either side of his thighs. Her fingers tunneled through his hair as he lifted his head slightly to meet her gaze. “I said wait. There’s a difference.”
He sat motionless, obviously viewing her as a predator and himself as the prey. The image—a lioness stalking a gazelle—amused her, bringing a smile to her lips.
“Okay, what are we waiting for?”
“Nothing now.” She tugged his head back, leaning forward to press her bare breasts to his chest while her mouth began to gently peruse the strong, masculine lines of his face.
“I wanted you to wait because it’s not fair for you to be in the driver’s seat a second time in a row. If we’re going to do this again—” She wiggled her hips, grinding herself over the solid ridge of his trapped erection. “—and it certainly feels like we’re going to, unless you have some objection, then I want to be in charge for a change. I want the chance to make you come twelve or thirteen times in one night.”
A huff of stale air burst from his lungs. “Sorry, babe, I can pretty much guarantee that’s an objective you’re not going to reach, no matter how hard you try. The mind is willing, believe me, but the body is far from able. I may be as young and randy as the next guy, but even I can’t get it up a dozen times in one night.”
She slipped a hand down between their bodies and rubbed him suggestively and with great purpose. “Mind if I give it a try?”
The muscles in his arms, thighs, and abdomen all went tight as elevator cables. “Be my guest.”
She grinned. He sounded nonchalant, but she could feel the heat and tension rolling off him in waves.
She could leave him now, worked up, desperate, ready to chew nails for the chance to get off. It would be such poetic justice in so many ways.
And a few weeks ago, she would have done it. She would have gloried in the ability to get him all lathered up, then walk away, leaving him hard and aching, panting for more.
Now, though, her vindictive streak when it came to Dylan Stone seemed to have disappeared. Or at least taken a short jaunt down to Jamaica while the rest of her stayed behind to get her groove on.
And just like the last time she’d been naked with him, she decided to block out any pesky everyday concerns. Her underlying hatred for him, their ongoing battle of one-upmanship, whatever realities might come crashing down in the bright light of day.
She was like a junkie jonesing for a fix. Just one more hit and she’d be okay. Just one more hit and she’d quit, give it up forever, check herself into rehab. Honest. Just one more hit . . .
She only hoped that after tonight, after she’d let herself chase down this one last high, she would have the strength to say no from now on. Because he was a bit like a drug: slowly but s
urely becoming addictive and necessary to keep her body functioning. To stave off the tremors and anxiety and sickness of withdrawal.
But call her a junkie, an addict, a glutton for punishment. Like Dylan, sitting immobilized beneath her, she was more than willing to go with the moment and follow where her raging hormones were leading. And like Scarlett O’Hara, she would think about the consequences tomorrow.
Sliding her palms down the long, sleek line of his chest, she curled her fingers into the material of his shirt and tugged it from the waistband of his jeans. He moved slightly to help her pull the fabric free, but otherwise let her do all the work.
She was fine with that . . . after all, she was the one who’d insisted on taking the reins this time around . . . but still she took her time releasing the row of tiny white buttons running down the front. Slipping her hands inside to caress his warm, smooth skin, she pushed the edges of fabric away, revealing more of his chest inch by glorious inch.
She could feel him vibrating with unleashed arousal, his teeth grinding as he fought not to reach out and take over, to simply take what he so obviously wanted. The knowledge of just how strong that urge was in him made her thighs clench and weakened her resolve to go slow and draw out the agony for both of them.
Licking her lips and swallowing past the lump of dry desire in her throat, she pushed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, waiting for him to sit up just a bit so she could pull it free and toss it aside altogether. While she went to work on the snap of his jeans, his hands came up to toy with her breasts. Cup them, squeeze them, circle and tease her nipples with the sides of his thumbs.
She moaned and arched her back, enjoying his ministrations even as she considered shutting him down. Was she still in the driver’s seat if she let him take the wheel now and again?
Did she care?
At the moment, no. Right now, she was much more interested in getting them both naked so she could really start making him squirm.
The metal rivet of his jeans popped open and she very carefully began to lower the zipper. It wasn’t easy, considering the pressure of his erection pressing against the other side.
To keep tender flesh from getting snagged . . . because she couldn’t think of anything that would put an end to an intimate encounter quite as quickly—or painfully—as getting a guy’s cock caught in his zipper . . . she slipped her free hand inside, behind the denim closure.
Although the thin barrier of his underwear protected her from direct contact with his goods, they didn’t keep him from groaning or his dick from twitching. His grip on her breasts tightened as his head fell back and he let his eyes drift closed.
“Don’t fall asleep on me yet,” she teased softly.
“Trust me,” he said, eyes still closed, “I’m wide awake.”
She could feel that. He pulsed beneath her hand, and she was flooded with exquisite memories of having him inside her, so long and thick and relentless.
When the zipper was as low as it would go, she trailed her fingers under the waistband of both his pants and briefs as far as she could.
“Lift up,” she told him, flexing her hands so that her nails dug gently into the tender flesh of his hips and upper buttocks.
He did as she asked, and she wasted no time skimming the jeans down his legs. But to get them all the way off, she had to slide off his lap and onto the floor. Once there, she made short work of removing his boots and socks and, finally, his pants.
“That’s better,” she murmured, taking a moment to admire what a gorgeous male specimen he was.
All hard planes and smooth lines. Rakish, windblown hair and a hint of stubble covering his jaw. Hairy legs and a less hairy chest. Less hairy, but with an alluring trail of light curls leading down, down, down in a pleasure path to his most masculine asset.
He had perfect shoulders, perfect biceps, perfect pecs, a perfectly mouthwatering set of six-pack abs . . . and that was only above the waist. Below, he had the potential to raise a woman’s core temperature by at least ten degrees for every second she spent admiring him. It was like looking into the sun, blinding in its intensity.
She felt the tip of her tongue dart out to worry the center of her upper lip. It didn’t help, either, that she knew exactly what that piece of equipment could do. She knew its potential, its staying power, and the amazing skill of the man who wielded it.
From his deceptively relaxed pose, Dylan’s eyes fluttered open, flickering like blue flame as he stared down at her. “Keep doing that with your tongue,” he warned, “and you won’t be in charge much longer.”
Tilting her head to one side, she said, “Oh, really? You got a problem with my tongue?”
It was the worst Godfather/GoodFellas/Taxi Driver impression ever, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I can think of much better things for a naked woman to do with her mouth.”
She arched a brow. “A naked woman who’s already on her knees, you mean?”
His smile transformed into a full-fledged leer. “Yeah.”
Oh, he had some nerve. What part of woman on top did he not understand? She should punish him for his insolence, really she should.
A shiver of excitement stole through her at the memory of the first time he’d shown up at her apartment, and his discovery of her Domiknitrix screen name, which had led him to openly wonder what hid inside her bedroom closet.
Leather bustiers? Fishnet stockings? Thigh-high vinyl boots with razor-sharp stiletto heels? Riding crops and full-length whips?
She wished now that he’d been right. If she’d had a few pleasure-and-pain sex toys tucked away, she would retrieve them and show him exactly how a dominant/submissive relationship was supposed to work.
But since she’d pretty much been thinking along the same lines as he was, she decided not to punish him. Yet.
Then again, a good blow job—if done right—could be a decent form of punishment, too.
She decided then and there to suck him until he begged, cried, whimpered . . . and came like an unmanned fire hose. That would teach him who was boss.
Rising up a little straighter from her crouched position, she placed her hands on his bare knees and applied pressure, causing him to splay his legs farther apart. Then she moved between them until her belly bumped the edge of the sofa. At the same time, she let her fingers dance over the tops of his thighs, enjoying the crisp, rough texture of the tiny hairs there.
She could feel his muscles like steel beams beneath his skin, and the slight, occasional tremor of need that ran through him from head to toe. The brisk, wintry fragrance of his cologne mixed with the headier trace of his own testosterone-laden scent, and she breathed deep, inhaling every musky molecule.
His fully erect cock, surrounded by a bed of tight, light blond curls, strained upward and nearly bent far enough away from her to touch the flat surface of his belly. The soft, walnut-sized spheres of his balls were already drawn up with arousal and in anticipation of even greater pleasure.
She licked her lips again. He wasn’t the only one thrumming with expectancy. The upbeat strains of “Lollipop, Lollipop” started rolling through her brain, and she found herself silently humming along.
From the moment she’d stripped him bare and gotten her first really good look at him (her apartment had been much darker the first time they were together, with only the occasional ray of moon glow to illuminate their respective bodies), she’d been wanting to lick him like a lollipop, so it was no surprise the song had popped into her head.
Her gaze rose one more time to his. His clouded, blue velvet eyes were watching her through hooded lids. With a smile, she leaned forward, opened her mouth, and ran the flat of her tongue along the bottom of his thick, velvet-over-steel length from base to tip.
Dylan let out a hiss, his hips rising slightly from the cushion of the sofa of their own volition. For a brief second, his eyes fluttered completely closed and the cords of his neck went ta
ut as his head tipped back.
But then he seemed to get himself under control, nostrils flaring and chest rising as he breathed deep. A second later his eyes were open and riveted back on her. The only outward sign of his continued eagerness was his fingers clenching and unclenching in the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, as though trying to keep himself from reaching out to grab her and force her mouth to go exactly where and how he wanted it.
She might have grinned if her lips hadn’t been otherwise occupied. Then again, she thought, as she swirled her tongue around the plum-shaped tip, it turned out to be pretty easy to smile around a guy’s cock, as long as she was careful with her teeth.
And she was . . . very careful. Careful to use just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of suction. She licked and nipped and treated him just like the lollipop she’d been humming about, and then tilted her head to take him inside.
Within her closed lips, her tongue swirled around the rigid length, her hand clasped him near the base. Every once in a while, her fingers gave him a squeeze and she made a concerted effort to change up the motion of her mouth, to never continue the same action for long.
“God, you’re good at that,” he said in a thin, tight voice that made him sound as though he were being strangled. “Whatever happens, don’t stop. Fire, flood, earthquake . . . keep going, just like that, and I’ll die a happy man.”
Since she couldn’t speak at the moment, she responded by fluttering her lashes in what she hoped was a coquettish and seductive way. If not . . . well, giving head caused bizarre enough facial expressions to begin with; she didn’t want to look like she was being struck by ocular Tourette’s at the same time.
Under her elbows, which rested on his long, hard thighs, she could feel Dylan flexing, struggling to control his breathing, trying to hold back his body’s sharp response to what she was doing.
But she didn’t want him to hold back, didn’t want him maintaining control. She wanted him sweating out of every pore, teetering on the edge of the most excruciating orgasm he’d ever experienced, and breaking apart like a meteor rushing to earth.