Hot & Heavy

by Tracy Wolff

  His free hand moves to my hip, and I gasp a little at the unexpected touch—at how good it feels and how warm his hand is. Shawn lifts his head at the sound, his dark eyes searching mine for one long second, two, as if assuring himself that I’m still on board.

  I am. I shouldn’t be, but oh God, I am.

  I wrap a hand around his neck and tug him close, until our lips once again meet.

  He smiles then. I can’t see it, but I can feel the upward curve of his mouth against mine right before he sweeps his tongue along the outside of my lower lip.

  Heat sparks deep inside me and I gasp again. But this time, Shawn doesn’t lift his head. Instead he takes instant advantage and delves inside, his tongue stroking sensuously against mine.

  He tastes good, like whiskey and honey and warm, sexy man. It’s my turn to moan a little, my turn to explore his mouth. To taste and tease and torment him the way he is so expertly doing to me.

  For long seconds, he lets me take the lead. Lets me slide my hands over his shoulders and down his back as I lick my way along the seam of his mouth, the swell of his full lower lip. Then he’s moving his own hand, sliding it from my hip to the sensitive spot on my lower back. I arch my spine at the first touch, and he slides his fingers underneath the hem of my blouse. For long seconds I revel in his touch, in the rough warmth of his palm against my skin—a direct contrast to the gossamer softness of my blouse.

  Then he’s moving us down the hall—back, back, back—until I’m flush against the wall of a secluded little alcove and he’s flush against me. I press myself into him, gasping a little at the full body contact. At the heat and the power of his long, muscular body pressed against mine.

  He lifts his head, looks down at me with eyes gone black as sin. “Okay?” he whispers even as his fingers stroke gently, inexorably down my back to dip beneath the waistband of my pants.

  I should tell him no, should tell him I don’t kiss strange men in the backs of bars, and I sure as hell don’t let them touch me beneath my clothes. But I can’t bring myself to do it, can’t bring myself to say anything more than, “Yes. Please.”

  “Please what?” he answers, voice low and dark and wicked. So wicked. It makes me want to be wicked, too, when I’ve always prided myself on being good. Makes me want to be wanton, when I’ve always prided myself on being in control. “What do you want, Sage?”

  I don’t answer him. I can’t. The sound of him—the feel and taste and sight of him—has robbed me of my voice and my inhibitions. I pull him closer, arch against him even as I let my head fall back to bare my neck to him in what can only be interpreted as an invitation.

  He accepts the invitation, a dark, rumbly sound coming from his chest as he leans down and presses his lips to my collarbone. It feels so good. He feels so good, and it’s been so long since I’ve had a lover, so long since I’ve let a man so much as touch me in any but the most casual ways. The fact that he’s so cautious with me, so careful not to overwhelm me, only makes me want this—want him—more.

  Sparks of desire catch fire inside of me at the first slide of his mouth over my skin, making me wet. Making me want.

  And that’s before he licks his way to the hollow of my throat.

  Before he trails hot kisses up the side of my neck to the delicate skin behind my ear.

  Before he nibbles softly on my lobe, his breath burning hot against my skin.

  I gasp then, at the unexpected, overwhelming pleasure of this moment—and the unexpected, overwhelming power of him. My hands slide into the dark silk of his hair, my fingers weaving and clutching and pulling at it even as I arch my back to offer him more. And to demand more.

  More kisses, more pleasure, more him.

  “I like that sound,” he tells me nipping sharply at my ear before he pulls away. “Let’s see if we can get you to make it again.”

  “Come back,” I demand in a voice gone husky with desire.

  “No worries there,” he answers but he doesn’t immediately comply. Instead, his fingers go to the bow at the front of my blouse.

  He grabs both ends and slowly pulls them until the bow unravels. I expect him to finish untying it and go straight for the buttons underneath. Instead, he pauses for a second, two, left eyebrow quirked and the two strips of fabric held taut by his huge, hard hands.

  With another man, having him so close to my throat with something he could use to strangle me would be terrifying. But with Shawn, this man who has been so careful to make sure I’m along for every step of this ride, the vulnerability feels okay. More, it feels sexy—makes me feel sexy as I wait to see what he’s going to do.

  In the end, all he does is finish unraveling the ties before letting them fall back against the fabric of my blouse. But the threat—the promise—of what he could have done is in the air between us now. It speeds up my breathing, makes my nipples peak and my sex wet. And that’s before he starts unbuttoning my blouse one excruciatingly slow button at a time.

  Four buttons in and I’m panting and arching against him, one small step away from begging him to fuck me right here in this niche down the hall from the bathroom.

  He stops at five buttons, and I give a strangled little protest that he cuts off with a finger to my lips. Then he’s using his other hand to slide my blouse off my shoulder before leaning down and pressing a warm, wet kiss to the spot where my neck meets my shoulder.

  It feels good, really good, especially when he starts licking at the sensitive bend, his mouth hot and soft and just a little bit wet as he sucks my skin between his teeth and gently bites down.

  This time the sound I make is more moan than gasp—half-pleasure, half-pain, all arousal—and he laughs a little. It’s a dark, sexy sound that only makes me wetter…and more desperate.

  I pull at him then, sliding my hands back into his hair and tugging, until that glorious mouth of his is back against my skin.

  He licks at me a little more, nibbling and kissing his way over my collarbone to the upper swell of my breast. His fingers come up and stroke my nipple through the lacey edge of my demi-bra. I clutch at him as my legs nearly go out from under me, but he pushes at my hands until they’re against the wall on either side of my head and I’m spread wide open for him.

  “Keep them there,” he tells me.

  There’s a note of command in his voice that would normally set me off, that would normally have me telling him to go to hell on my way out the door. But there’s a look in his eyes as he says it, though, that turns me on. Half-amused, half-challenging, and all male, it turns me from hot to molten and from wet to absolutely drenched.

  Which is the only reason I do as he says. Because this kind of pleasure—this kind of need—is not something I’m used to.

  “Okay?” he asks after several fraught seconds.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Good.” He smirks then, and at another time I’d be tempted to wipe the look off his face using whatever means necessary. Right now, though, all it makes me do is arch my back in an effort to draw his attention to my body. To my breasts. To the pleasure I’m suddenly desperate for.

  It works, because the next thing I know, his mouth is back on my breast again, his tongue tracing the edge of my bra cup as his fingers pinch my nipples. Hard.

  My hips buck against his and my leg seems to lift of its own volition to wrap around his hips. It’s his turn to groan, his turn to thrust forward even as he continues to use his mouth and hands to give me a combination of pleasure and pain that nearly sets my skin on fire.

  I slide my hands down, grab on to his ass and try to pull him even closer, until his dick is nestled against my sex. He won’t have it, though. Instead, he shifts his hips back and continues to tease me until I gasp. Until I whimper.

  Until I beg.

  For his mouth. For his touch. For the release I can feel building insi
de of me just from the press of his mouth on my skin. Just from the tangle of his fingers in my hair.

  And then he’s untangling my leg from around his waist, holding it up and to the side as he drops to his knees in front of me.

  Before I can register what’s happening, he’s got me leaning back against the wall, hips canted forward and leg draped over his shoulder. Then his mouth is on my breast, his teeth biting gently at my nipple through the thin layers of my blouse and bra.

  “Please,” I gasp, fingers grabbing on to his shoulders in a futile effort to steady myself. To stay grounded when all I want to do is float away. “Oh God. Please.”

  “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he tells me as he slips his hand past the waistband of my pants, skims his fingers along the top edge of my panties. “I’ve got you.”

  As he lifts his mouth from my breast, I have one moment to breathe. One moment to remember where I am. Where we are. One moment to remember all the reasons this is a really bad idea.

  But then his thumb is drawing circles on my clit, his fingers stroking along my sex, and the only thing I can think about is how good it feels. How good he feels.

  It’s been so long since I’ve made love to a man, so long since I’ve had any part of a man inside me. And the men I have been with through the years—all four of them—never made me feel like this. Never even came close to making my body tremble and my nerves light up like the Fourth of July.

  “Where’d you go?” he asks, pressing his mouth right under my belly button.

  I start to answer him, start to tell him that I’m right here, but before the words can form he’s tugging my pants down my hips, letting them pool at my feet. And then he’s leaning forward, burying his face in my sex before delivering one long, slow lick to my clit.

  I whimper, a high-pitched sound that hangs in the air around us as I buck against his mouth. My fingers clutch at his shirt, tangling in the soft fabric. The knee of my one standing leg trembles so much that the only thing keeping me upright is his hand on my stomach, pressing my body against the wall.

  He laughs, low and sexy, at the breathless sounds that are pouring out of my mouth without my consent, before taking hold of my thigh and lifting me until my back is slanted against the wall and both of my legs are draped over his shoulders. I make a startled sound as he does it, shocked at how easy it is for him. At how strong he is. When I was touching him earlier, I felt his rock-hard biceps. Felt his taut stomach and his heavily muscled chest. But none of that prepared me for the way he just lifted me like I weigh nothing.

  Then he’s licking his way back and forth against my slit, over and over again. Dipping inside just enough to make me crazy, circling my clit, then licking my labia just firmly enough to have me gasping for breath and arching against him.

  “Please,” I plead, high and breathless, as I cant my hips against his face. Any other time, I’d be embarrassed by just how desperate I sound. How broken and needy. But right now, all I can think about is his tongue—his wicked, wild, wonderful tongue—and all the amazing things it’s doing to me. How good he’s making me feel. How close I am to the edge.

  “Please, please, please—”

  “You want to come, sweetheart?” he asks, breath hot against me and voice nothing but gravel.

  “Yes. Oh God, yes. Please.”

  He shifts his grip on my legs so that he can slide first one finger and then a second deep inside me. At the same time, his tongue darts out, caresses my inner folds again and again. I spread my legs wider, make a desperate sound deep in my throat as I open myself to everything—to anything—he wants to give me.

  That surrender, that absolute abandonment of everything but the need, must be what he’s waiting for. Because, suddenly, it’s his turn to groan. His turn to clutch at me, the fingers of his free hand digging into my thigh hard enough to leave bruises but not hard enough to hurt. Not now when all I can feel is pleasure.

  He circles my clit, flicks at it with the tip of his tongue even as he bends his fingers deep inside of me and finds my G-spot. I gasp as he brushes over it, and he groans deep in his throat. Then he starts to stroke over it again and again, while sucking at my clit at the same time.

  I come whimpering and arching wildly against his mouth. His free hand slips from my thigh to my hip, and he holds me in place as he licks and kisses and fingers me through one climax and into another.

  When it’s over, when I’m panting and shaking and trying desperately to pull myself back to some semblance of sanity, he presses soft kisses to my sex, my thighs, my abdomen before reaching for my panties.

  “Let me—” I reach for him, slide a hand down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. I want to give him at least a little of the pleasure he’s just given me.

  But he catches my hand, brings it to his lips. “It’s okay, Sage.”

  It’s not okay, though. Not when electricity is still zinging through my veins. And not when he’s so hot and hard and obviously ready.

  I press my hand against his denim-covered cock, feel the rock-hard length of him beneath my palm. He feels good. Really good. And he looks even better, with his pupils all blown out with desire and that heavily muscled chest of his rising and falling like a piston and all I can do is want.

  All I can do is need.

  “It’s not,” I tell him as I fumble with his belt buckle. “I want you.”

  One big hand comes to rest over mine, halting my clumsy motions. The other presses under my chin until I look up and into those crazy beautiful eyes of his. “Are you sure? You don’t have—”

  “I’m sure,” I answer fiercely, reaching up and threading my hands through his hair so I can tug his mouth down to mine.

  Chapter 4

  Shawn

  She tastes like lemonade. And mint. Cool, fresh, delicious, and all I can think as I dive into this kiss is Thank God.

  Thank God I followed her back here.

  Thank God she let me kiss her.

  Thank God she just said yes.

  Sage’s hands are back at my belt, and this time she manages to unbuckle the damn thing—without ever pulling her lips from mine. Thank God.

  She’s unbuttoning my jeans, pulling down my zipper, and I nearly howl with relief at being free from the tight denim. Then nearly howl again when her warm, soft hand wraps around my dick.

  My whole system jolts, and fuck, I nearly come like a thirteen-year-old with his first girl. I manage to hold it together, though—barely. At least until she begins to jack me off.

  “Wait,” I breathe against her lips, covering her fingers with my own. The sounds she made when I was eating her out drove me wild and I can barely hold it together. “I’m close.”

  “That’s okay,” she tells me with a little grin that drives me wild. “I like you close.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. This girl is H-O-T. She looks all proper—and even a little prim—on the outside, but underneath she’s pure, molten fire.

  I fucking love it.

  “I want to be inside you when I come,” I tell her as I slowly, agonizingly, peel her hand away. Immediately my dick screams for relief, for me to bring her back, to let her do whatever the fuck she wants to me.

  I ignore it—and the need rampaging through me like a wildebeest—and focus instead on fumbling my wallet out of my pocket.

  “Do you have something?” Sage asks, voice all soft and high and breathy. She’s moving against me, legs tangling with mine, her sex bumping restlessly against my dick.

  And—can I just say—how fucking hot is it that she’s six feet tall? That she’s long and lean and the perfect height for me to fuck just like this?

  “Yeah,” I grind out, pulling the condom from my wallet.

  “Oh, thank God.” She rips it from my hand before I’ve even closed my wallet, and then she’s tearing it open. Rolling it onto my dic
k with those soft, talented, dangerous hands of hers.

  Fuck. This woman is way hotter than I originally gave her credit for. Which is saying something because I’ve been pretty much mesmerized by her from the moment we walked into this bar.

  When she’s done, she gives my dick an extra few strokes—like I need it—then wraps those long, sinuous arms around my neck. She pulls me down for another kiss, and as she does, she whispers, “Fuck me,” against my mouth. “Please.”

  Those are the words I’ve been waiting to hear. Reaching down, I wrap one of her long, long, glorious legs around my waist. I take a moment to stroke a finger down her slit just to make sure she’s still wet—and hell yeah, she is. She feels good, so good, that I can’t help but finger her for a second, two. Can’t help but delve inside to stroke her G-spot. Just because I can. And because I love the way her head falls back against the wall, the way her eyes close and her skin flushes and she whimpers low in her throat.

  “Shawn.” Her voice is raw when she calls my name, and it does something to me, deep inside. “Please.”

  It’s all the invitation I need, and with a groan, I slide deep inside her.

  She’s tight and wet and hot, so fucking hot that for a second I go into sensory overload. The breathless moans she’s making. The way she smells like jasmine and tastes like lemons. The way her hazel eyes have gone dark, molten green. And most of all, the way she feels.

  Jesus, the way this woman feels is designed to bring a man to his knees.

  “Shawn,” she says again, and this time it’s little more than a whimper. Her hips are rocking restlessly against mine, her fingernails digging into my shoulders.

  It’s that little prick of pain that brings me back, that finally gets me moving. I slide out then slam forward hard enough to have her gasping. Then I do it again and again, reveling in her broken cries and the way she clutches me like I’m the only thing keeping her standing.

  “More,” she gasps, arching against me. “Please. More.”

  Her voice drives me crazy—as crazy as the feel of her wrapped around my dick—so I give her more. I give her everything I’ve got, pounding into her fast and hard. Again and again and again.