Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(29)

Oh. That. Like she hadn’t asked, begged, ordered him to get on with it. And now she was getting all sissy missy about it.

But she trembled as he pulled the garment down. It snagged, the crotch locked in the grip of her clamped, quivering thighs.

“You sure you’re OK?” He tugged inquisitively at her thong.

Irrational anger gripped her like a charley horse. OK? What did that word even mean? As if anything in her f*cked-up world could ever be OK again in this lifetime. But it wasn’t Bruno’s fault. None of it.

And she’d die if he stopped. “I’m fine,” she squeaked.

“Then relax,” he coaxed.

Yeah. Like it was so easy. He petted her thighs, long, soothing strokes. She clutched the thick muscles of his shoulders to steady herself, and her legs unlocked, letting the gusset of her thong finally go.

He peeled it off one ankle, then the other, then lifted the scrap of black lace to his face, eyes crinkling from a hidden grin as he inhaled. He pressed his face against her navel, nuzzling. Slid down until his mouth rested against her muff. Just leaning there. The rhythmic swell of his breath was a subtle caress. “I want to make you come,” he said.

She tried to laugh. The sound strangled itself. “So I should hope.”

“No, I mean right now. With my mouth.” He stroked the sides of her thighs, each caress coaxing her to relax, let him do his magic thing.

She cleared her throat. “Not now. Maybe later. If you’re good.”

“I’m very good.” His voice vibrated deliciously through her groin.

He pulled her down onto the couch and slid between her legs, cupping her head to pull her close. To kiss her.

She arched away in panic. “No!”

He rocked back. It was hard to make out his expression in the dimness, silhouetted against the heater, but she could feel puzzlement and frustration coming off him in waves. “What the f*ck?”

She was going to cry again. She didn’t dare speak. She shook her head, blinking madly. Kissing would crack her along all the fault lines.

“You don’t want foreplay or kissing? What the hell do you want?”

He was angry, and she didn’t blame him. She was angry at herself. “Turn that thing off,” she said, gesturing to the heater. “It makes too much light.”

“What’s wrong with light? Who are you hiding from? You’ll freeze!”

“I won’t freeze.” As if. She felt feverish. She was going to combust

Bruno gave the switch on the heater an angry slap. The light faded to a million shades of deep charcoal gray. He rose to his feet.

She grabbed his hand, terrified that she’d scared him off. “Where are you going?”

“If you don’t want the heater, we need a blanket. There are springs coming through. I don’t want you to get scratched.”

It was so cold without Bruno to generate heat, but he was back a moment later, his arms full of fuzzy blanket. He arranged the blanket over the couch, half draped over the back, half draped over the seat.

He gestured sharply for her to sit. This was like an anxiety dream, only worse. Stark naked except for thigh highs, with a very large and volcanically hot sex god, who she’d cleverly wrangled into a really bad mood, looming over her in the dark. Nice move, Parr. Very smooth.

She tugged on the bottom of his jacket. “Won’t you take that off?”

He shrugged the jacket off. Pried off shoes, socks, sent them flying. Yanked his T-shirt off over his head. She was transfixed as every sensual promise was abundantly fulfilled. He was ripped and beautiful, even in the dark. He wrenched his belt loose, shoved down his jeans. Kicked them off. Stood there, his cock jutting toward her.

Wow. She’d seen plenty of male sexual equipment, being as lusty and curious as the next girl, but she’d never seen anything like this guy. Not that she was a size queen, or anything. But even so. Oh, my.

He stood silently in that belligerent pose, legs wide, letting her look. Waiting for her to chicken out.

“Touch me,” he said. “If you really want this. Touch my cock.”

“My hands are freezing cold,” she warned.

“They won’t be for long.”

She lifted her hands, tentatively. He grabbed them, wrapped them around the shaft of his cock. They gasped, him at the cold, her at the heat. Delicious, volcanic. The velvety supple softness, gliding over that hot, hard, urgent pulse of blood in his shaft. So thick, stiff, and ready. Her thighs tightened. Her hand barely closed around him.

Her body felt tight. Her skin felt too small. Bruno flung his head back. She wanted to kiss the taut tendons in his throat, but she was trapped in his tight grip. His fists clamped over her hand, guiding the long, squeezing strokes, the twisting swirls.

It was so quiet, just occasional night sounds of the city, their harsh breathing, the wet sounds of her hands moving on him. Rougher than she’d expected. Her lungs were squeezed small with excitement, thighs clenched around a hot glow. She pried a hand free and cupped his ass. Dug her nails into the taut dips and curves of his flanks, pulling him. She wanted to savor his slick, salty taste.

His hand blocked her face as she leaned closer. “No.”

She was utterly taken aback. Men never refused blow jobs. The craving for fellatio was hardwired into them. “No?” she repeated.

He held her face firmly at a distance. “If I can’t, you can’t,” he said. “Not unless it’s mutual. It’s my sexual code of conduct.”