Baddest Bad Boys(57)

She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughed into his eyes. “I’d love to say the same, but…”

“The bony knees and attitude didn’t do it for you, huh?” He cocked a brow, ran his hand down to cup her. Molten gold. Slick, plump, and creamy.

“Hmm…” She closed her eyes, pushed deeper into his hand. “You’re doing it for me now.”

He explored her opening, slipped his finger inside, ran it lightly between her velvet folds. Wet. Ready. “Lie down.” His voice was low to his ears, and harsh.

She did what she was told, and when she was on her back, she stretched her arms above her head.

He stared down at her, soaked her in. She was a vision in firelight, a vision that locked Mac into place—some kind of time warp.

His body thrummed with need, but he refused it and continued to gaze down at her. Hell, it wasn’t every day a man’s fantasy lay spread in front of him unashamedly naked, with everything on offer. His breath shortened painfully. Jesus, he’d dreamed of her like this, open and waiting for him. Only him. There’d been more women in his life than one man deserved, but none of them was Tommi. Not even close.

He wanted this image—her lush curves burnished by firelight, her blond hair tumbling across a blue cushion—imprinted on his mind forever.

But a man’s patience had its limits.

“Open your legs,” he said, his voice ragged. “Wide.”

She complied, and he sank to his knees between them. The dew on her pubic hair glistened, beckoned. He touched her once, then pulled back, to brace his hands on her knees, push them farther apart. “I want to look at you.”

“I kind of figured that.”

“And”—he bent his head, licked her seam—“I want to feast on you.”

He saw her breasts heave, her tongue come out to dampen her lips. When she spoke, it was a whisper. “Be my guest.” Again she licked her lips, this time with an edge of nervousness. “But it’s been a while for me, so be prepared.”

Mac had been preparing for Tommi for over half his life, and he knew what he wanted from her, what he wanted to give her.

He separated her folds, already dripping with the slick juices that would pave his way. Stroking her, he watched her eyes close, listened to her uneven, shallow breathing, then moved his gaze to her sex—the heaven he’d imagined as a boy and was about to experience as a man.

He dipped into her, first one finger then two, in…out, in…out…Each entry and withdrawal rhythmic and deeply penetrating.

When she started to thrash under him, he put a hand on her stomach to calm her, and bent his head.

He knew exactly where he was going.

Nestled in her soft folds, her clitoris was stiff and waiting. He drew circles around it with his finger, made it stand alone, then took it in his mouth and tasted her. Sweet, salty, spicy. Exotic.

He damn near exploded!

To stop himself he eased back, took his mouth from her and blew softly on her swollen pubis.

“Oh, God…more, Mac, more…please.”

When she thrust herself upward to his mouth, he went down hard, soft bites, licks and suckles. His cock was a spike, diamond-hard and past ready, but it didn’t stop him from the glory under his tongue.

He pulled the nub of her deep into his mouth, let it go, and gave it one long rasp of his tongue.

She purred, moaned, screamed his name, and came apart in his arms.

His breath coming so loud and fast he was deafened by it, he slipped on a condom, lifted her hips, and centered himself.

He rode in deep, the last of her contractions shimmering along his throbbing length. He pulled back, thrust again, his mind a whiteout, his skin too tight for his body. He was in Tommi, he was home, so deep in…

He erupted, flamed out, split into a million shards—a planet too close to the sun.

The cedar log in the fireplace crackled and hissed—like Mac, its last drop of moisture consumed by the flames.

Knowing he was heavy on her, he rolled onto his back, covered his eyes with a forearm.

In the large room the only sound was their breathing—first, short and sharp; then, long and languid.

Tommi rose up and over him, her breasts squashed against his chest. She smoothed the hair back from his damp forehead, brushed her lips over his. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” The words were playful, her tone oddly sober, implying she was as shaken as he was.

He opened his eyes to look into hers. He should feel empty, want to sleep. Instead, his gut felt thick and warm, and he was more awake than he’d been in years. He ran his knuckles across her smooth cheek. “I was inspired.”

“Yes, you were.” She stared at him a long time, her expression turning to one of puzzlement.

“What?” He pulled her face back to his, raising a brow.

“Nothing. I was just thinking I should have taken up nostrings, recreational sex years ago. I could get used to this.” She got to her feet. He looked up, past her still-damp mound and flat stomach, to her mouth. A half-smile played there. “And given that your particular form of inspiration caused dehydration”—her smile widened—“I need some water. You?”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about being the catalyst for her renewed sex life, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to get in any deeper with her than he already was. And post-f*ck conversation was a hell of a lot more dangerous than the sex. So while she got the water, he dealt with the condom and stoked the fire.