by Andrews, Amy
He grasped the bag and smiled. “Only a dozen?”
Sal hooked her leg around the back of his thigh and dragged his hips flush with the counter. “I’m more than happy for you to educate me.”
He grinned, then grasped both thighs and slid her toward him, the fabric beneath her easily facilitating the movement. The counter was just the right height to bring their hips into intimate alignment. She shut her eyes as the hard bulge of his erection beneath his zipper pressed with just the right amount of pressure between her legs.
Sal heard crinkling, and when she opened her eyes, he’d pulled off a tuft of fairy floss and was holding it up as he inspected her body. “Where first?” he mused, taking his time.
The question seemed entirely rhetorical, so she didn’t bother answering him out loud. But inside she was panting—anywhere.
Just put it anywhere.
“Doyle,” she moaned, the anticipation at screaming point as every nerve cell in her body prepared for some sugar. “You’re killing me.”
“Patience,” he murmured. “I’m spoilt for choice.”
Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs as his gaze ignited spot fires all over her torso. Now she knew how a marshmallow in a fire felt just before it burst into flames.
“Here, I think,” he said, lowering it to her belly button.
Sal’s stomach quivered at the merest brush of spun sugar and then clenched as he followed it with the wet glide of his mouth, sucking up the floss and then licking and laving, his whiskers scraping her belly, his tongue dipping into her navel to extract every last morsel of sugar.
“God,” he groaned, his tongue stroking down, down exactly the path his finger had just traveled, all the way down to the lace edge of her underwear and then lower. “You taste so good,” he said against the satin. “Sweet and salt.”
He straightened and plucked another serving of fairy floss out of the bag. “Please tell me that bra has a front fastener?”
Sal nodded. She only hoped he didn’t expect her to open it, because desire had completely leadened her limbs.
“Thank Christ,” he said, reaching for it, finding it with deft fingers, and undoing it one-handed. “Oh yes,” he muttered as her breasts sprang free. “God yes.”
He ripped the piece of floss in two and Sal whimpered as he dragged each one across an aching rosy tip. Over and over, all light and airy at first, like nothing more than the swirl of faintly disturbed air currents, then more noticeable as it melted and crystallized against the sizzle of her fevered skin, and she was arching her back and begging him to taste.
“God, Doyle, please,” she panted, her hands clutching convulsively at her ruined dress.
And then his mouth was over a nipple, hot and wet, licking and swiping like he’d done with her belly button, then sucking deep and hard, pulling it into a rigid tip, grazing his whiskers against the soft underside of her breast as he grazed his teeth against the puckered bud in his mouth. Then he swiped his tongue across it to ease the sting and repeated the process over and over until she was crying out his name and begging him for more.
He gave her more, switching to the opposite side and repeating the process, his fingers keeping up the torture on the other nipple until Sal was drenched and burning for release, her hips moving involuntarily, her back arching.
Her pulse tripped and her breath stuttered in and out in short pants. When he finally pulled away, Sal was insensible with need.
“You look incredible,” he murmured, looking down at her, running the flat of his hand from the hollow of her throat all the way down her middle until it hit satin and lace, and he used the heel of his palm to put pressure on the spot she needed it most. She moaned and shamelessly pressed herself against his hand. He pushed back—harder.
“Utterly wanton.”
Sal had only one word to say as she arched her back and begged with her eyes. “More,” she croaked.
Normally she directed the sexy-times action, choreographing it perfectly so the guy got what he wanted and she got what she needed, giving only what she had to and holding everything else back.
But not now.
She’d lost track of everything the second Doyle tore all the buttons off her dress, and he could have asked her for the world right now and she’d have given it to him for just a little bit more. Had she been remotely in her right mind, she would have run screaming from the room. But her common sense had checked out.
“You want some of this?” he asked, holding up a big glob of the fluffy stuff.
Sal nodded, her mouth flooding with saliva as he leaned over her body and wafted it close to her nostrils before he pressed it against her lips. She opened her mouth on a moan, accepting the sweet treat, then the hot follow-through of his mouth claiming her.
They fed off each other, greedy, hungry for the heady taste of sugar and the earthy taste of lust, dueling for every last sweet, sticky morsel as it ebbed and flowed from one mouth to the other. Eventually it was gone but the lust was not, building stronger as the last trace of sugar disappeared and the full-throated roar of primal, chest-beating, hip-grinding desire flooded in where the sugar had been.
And it wasn’t sweet.
It was demanding. Dirty. Insistent. An animal needing to be fed.
It was insatiable.
His hands held her head captive as his lips took and gave in equal measure. His body was hard and heavy pressed along the length of hers, and Sal reveled in it, never wanting him to leave. Her arms wound around his neck, drawing him closer, her legs locking around his hips, pressing the damp fabric of her underwear into the hard bulge of his zipper, rubbing and rubbing, the friction of satin on metal bordering on electric.
“Fuck,” Doyle groaned, wrenching his mouth from hers, placing his forehead on hers, his chest heaving.
“No,” Sal protested, also out of breath—out of my mind—lifting her head, trying to claim his lips again. “More.”
But he evaded her, pushing himself upright. “Yes,” he panted. “More.” He waved the packet at her. One fluffy glob of sweet heaven remained. “There,” he said, pointing at her underwear. “I want to eat it out of you while you come.”
Sal bit down on a groan at the image, her pelvic floor muscles going into a pre-orgasmic spasm at the thought of fairy floss flavored cunnilingus.
“Lift,” he said, grabbing the band of her underwear and tugging on it. She lifted. Wild horses couldn’t have stopped her.
He yanked them down her legs, pulling them off over her shoes, and tossed them somewhere behind him, stepping between her legs again and looking down at her as she locked her ankles around his waist again. His breath hissed out as he took in this new nakedness, his eyes zeroing in on it.
“I knew you’d be this pretty,” he muttered.
He traced a circular path through the well-groomed hair, then slid his finger down the slick seam of her lips, and Sal gasped. He furrowed it in further as he slid it up again and she arched her back and moaned and shut her eyes when he found her clit all tight and hard and throbbing, begging for attention, ready to explode.
He circled it a couple of times and Sal lifted her hips, opening her eyes and panting, “More.”
He shook his head on a small smile. “Unlock your legs,” he whispered, pushing on her knees.
Sal did so reluctantly, frustrated by the hard beat inside her that demanded gratification but wanting what he was offering more than her next breath.
Doyle reached for the barstools on either side of him and brought them in closer, placing her left silver-heeled foot on the left stool and the right on the right. Her bent thighs hugged his ribs.
“Nope,” he muttered, clearly not satisfied with his access, using his foot to lightly kick the stools a little farther apart until her legs were spread wider, no longer touching his body, and was completely exposed to his view.
He smiled at her. “That’s much better.”
Sal agreed. There was something dirty-sexy about being spread befo
re a man with such pure carnal intent burning in his eyes.
“Doyle.”
She could feel how wet she was; surely he must be able to see it? Was he going to make her beg for it? Because God knew, she would. If he needed her to say the words—any of the words, no matter how base, no matter how descriptive—she would.
Expressing her needs didn’t embarrass her—it empowered her.
He grabbed the packet of fairy floss and pulled out the last chunk, and Sal whimpered as he laid it against her blazing core. She swore she could almost hear it sizzle as it hit all her heat and feel it furl up and start to dissolve in a sticky mess.
“Oh God,” he muttered, his gaze fixed to the spot. “It’s already melting.”
Sal’s belly clenched hard at the jagged note of sexual anticipation in Doyle’s voice. A part of her wanted him to get to it but a part of her just wanted to watch him looking at her so intimately. He was staring intently, like on the one hand, he was mapping all the intricate dips and folds, cataloging them, studying them as if he was taking a female anatomy appreciation course.
And on the other hand, like he wanted to fuck her five ways to Sunday.
And intended on doing so all night long.
He looked at her. “I can’t wait,” he said. “I wanted to wait until it was all melted but…I can’t wait.”
Sal groaned. “Jesus, Doyle. I’m hanging on by a thread here. Do I look like a woman who wants to wait?”
His eyes were all glittery and obsidian again. “What if I made you?”
She narrowed her eyes at the challenge. He wouldn’t dare. “I can always—” She slid her left hand onto her left breast, rolling her hyperreactive nipple between her fingers before moving lower, heading for the spot that tingled, screamed, yearned for his attention. “Start without you if you like.”
He halted her hand, snatching it up as she reached the scar that split her lower abdomen in two. “You think I wouldn’t enjoy watching you do that?” he asked, his voice rumbling sex all over her naked body.
“I think you would,” she murmured, her heart thudding in her chest at the heady sexual charge hanging in the air, like a spray of perfume. “But I think you want to eat me more.”
He stared down at her for long moments, his hand heavy against hers. “Damn straight,” he muttered.
Then he bent over her, dropped his head, and licked right up her middle.
Sal cried out. Loud.
“God,” he groaned, raising his head to look at her, “you taste incredible. Sugar and spice.”
Then he went back to work, using his tongue to devastating effect, zeroing in on her clit, lashing the tight pearl with diabolical efficiency.
Sal was already coming when his first finger slid into all her tight, wet heat. Considering she’d been anorgasmic for months, it was a freaking miracle he could do it so easily. Sometimes with men, back in the days when orgasms had been plentiful, she’d tried to push them back as long as possible, tried to prolong her pleasure, delay it, make the orgasm more profound.
The more all-consuming, the better she slept.
But she didn’t even try with Doyle. His second finger burrowed inside her and she just let it crash over her, her back arching, her hips grinding into his face, her thighs collapsing in on his head.
“Yes,” he groaned as she keened her release. “Yes.”
And he didn’t let up, keeping the hard pressure of his tongue in just the right spot, fucking her with his fingers as she came and came. Not until she was a quivering gelatinous mass, armless, legless, floating somewhere above herself in the kitchen, looking down at the hot mess she was and not even caring.
She wasn’t sure when he stopped. She only knew that when she came back to herself, he was standing between her legs, looking down at her with a very male smile, his fingers caressing the insides of her thighs.
“You okay?” he asked, his rough voice grating along her aching nipples.
She shook her head from side to side, only now becoming aware of the hardness of the counter beneath bony scapulae and the hard notches of her spine.
“No,” she murmured.
Because she wasn’t. Not for a lot of reasons, including the uncomfortable surface they’d chosen but mostly because they weren’t finished. Shattering like that had been wild and freeing and even now, postcoital malaise flowed sluggishly through a system powered by the heavy, relaxed thud of her recovering heartbeat, but tonight she needed more than just an orgasm, she needed a man—Doyle—pounding inside her, taking her to a place that only two people who were intimately connected could go.
She needed to go there.
She didn’t know why—she hadn’t needed it with anyone else—but she did tonight.
With Doyle.
She needed him inside her, filling her, filling the void and the emptiness that she’d thought she’d conquered with sex and clubbing and partying and picking up.
But she hadn’t.
He frowned. “No?”
Sal shook her head, then executed a perfect sit-up, her torn dress still clinging to her arms, her bra cups flapping uselessly by her side. She grabbed hold of the front of his shirt as soon as she was within reach, hauling their bodies close. “More.”
And she kissed him, hard and long, tasting herself on his mouth. The sugar and the spice.
Doyle groaned as Sal’s mouth closed over his. He’d planned on being a complete gentleman tonight as things had escalated between them and it had become clear what she wanted. He’d planned on seeing to her needs, then tucking her up in bed as he’d done last time. Stick to his determination that they date first, establish a relationship first.
Be different from the rest.
She’d freaked out at the fair today, and he wasn’t sure what that was about, but she’d definitely been on the verge of panic. Doyle was fairly sure if Harry hadn’t turned up when she had, Sal would have bolted.
So she had issues. And a lot of guys couldn’t be bothered with chicks who had baggage. The thing was, he wasn’t most guys. He was hooked. He wanted to get to know her and what made her tick and what frightened the bejesus out of her like today.
He wanted her to let him in.
But there was only so much sexual provocation a man could take, and right now he was beyond playing the gentleman.
“I need you inside me,” she gasped as she drew back from his mouth.
Fucking A. He needed to be inside her, too.
If he’d had a condom in his back pocket, he’d have yanked his fly down and plunged straight into her right here, right now, but he didn’t. “Lock your legs around me and hold on,” he said, grabbing her arse and hauling her off the bench.
She did exactly as he asked, her dress and bra dangling from her shoulders, her shod heels pressing into his butt, her breasts squashed into his chest, clinging to him as he navigated his way to the bedroom.
“Hurry,” she moaned in his ear, kissing down his neck and running her tongue along his collarbone as far as his shirt would allow.
Doyle’s heart thundered; his breath hitched in his chest as the long wet swipe went straight to his cock. He stopped, pressing her hard against the wall just outside his door, his hands sliding to grab hold of her thighs near her knees. He needed to kiss her, to consume her. He ground his hips and his mouth against hers, his head filling with the taste and smell of her, the tiny noises coming from the back of her throat getting lost in his deeper, longer groan as her tongue thrust into his mouth.
“Fuck…I want to kiss you all over,” he muttered against her mouth.
“God, Doyle…hurry…”
Doyle pulled her off the wall and took two paces to his door, which stood slightly ajar. He kicked it open and strode in, not stopping until he reached the low bed and threw her on it. She landed in a pile of twisted fabric, silver shoes, and bra cups. Her bare breasts bounced enticingly in the arc of light that spilled from the hallway into the darkened room.
A primitive surge of ownership
assailed him. Sal.
In his bed.
And he was going to keep her so sated she was never going to want to leave.
“You look good in my bed,” he growled.
She smiled up at him, her breasts shifting beautifully with the husky drag of each breath. “I’d look better with you on top of me.”
Doyle grinned. Damn straight. He didn’t need any more encouragement, hauling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. He followed it with his jeans and underwear, yanking them both down together and kicking them aside, his erection springing free.
It was both a relief and torture. He was so hard it hurt. Even the weight of the air on his cock was an unbearable stimulus.
“Oh my,” she said, staring at him for long moments like she was committing every millimeter of his taut, aching flesh to memory, and it was pure erotic agony, holding still while she looked her fill.
“Should have saved some fairy floss for that,” she said huskily before rising onto her knees and sliding her hand down the length of him.
Doyle sucked in a breath as she mastered the perfect amount of pressure, then cried out as her mouth followed, shutting his eyes as the hot swirl of her tongue sank fiery fingers of need into his buttocks. The firm, wet suction of her mouth pulled at muscles and nerves in his belly and balls, in the base of his spine, and he grabbed her shoulders for purchase as it almost brought him to his knees.
He looked down at her, kneeling on the bed, her legs spread wide, naked except for the tattered clothing falling halfway down her arms, her lips stretched wide around his girth, her eyes shut, her blond head bobbing back and forth.
Pleasuring him with complete abandon.
She looked magnificent, and he almost came at the sight. Knew that he would if he didn’t stop her. If he let her keep going, this would be a very short session indeed, and he still wouldn’t know what it felt like to be buried deep inside her.
“Stop,” he groaned with the last shred of resistance he could muster, pulling her off him, swooping his head down to cut off the protest spilling from her gorgeous wet, swollen mouth.