Extreme Danger (McClouds & Friends #5)(72)

She straightened them, giggling helplessly. “I can’t believe I forgot I still had these on.”

“Leave them,” he suggested, starting on the buttons at her neck.

“But they’re hideous,” she protested.

He stopped her hand as she was about to pry them off. “It’s a look,” he explained. “It’s a classic porn motif. The formerly frigid sex bomb secretary, right after her sexual awakening, but before she thinks to ditch the specs and lose the tight bun. Add virginal lingerie and you have yourself a fantasy.”

“Oh, please. Spare me.” She yanked the glasses off and flung them onto the coffee table. “Men are such pigs.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed, lifting the huge, tentlike flannel thing off her. Finally naked. As stunning as ever. No. More, even.

He held out the nightgown. “Get up,” he said hoarsely. “Let me put this on the couch, under you.”

She blinked at him, looking dazed and confused. “Huh?”

“For the wet spot.” He tugged her to her feet and spread the thing out deftly beneath her. He tossed her back down on top of it so that she bounced, her beautiful, pink-tipped tits jiggling seductively.

He gripped her hips and slid her ass back down to the edge of the couch. “You’re dripping * juice like a ripe peach,” he muttered. “I can’t get enough of it. Except that if I don’t f*ck you now, I think I’m going to die.”

She smiled at him, biting her lip with that uncertain look, but she opened for him like a flower as he folded her legs high and wide, that wet pink * open to him. Offered to him.

It hit him like a blow to the chest, as he positioned himself, jeans half-down. He breached her tight opening and started pushing inside her. How sensual she was, how generous. The look in her eyes. She clutched his upper arms as he forged his way deep inside. When he started to thrust, she made husky, surprised sounds with each slow, deliberate stroke.

They found their rhythm together, him listening, her gripping his ass and wiggling, and settled into a deep, wonderful plunge-twist, swivel-glide that made her gasp with pleasure, lifting herself to him.

Oh, God. So good. He’d lived without anything so good for so long, he’d forgotten feelings like this existed, or else he’d put the memory aside, persuaded himself that they were a luxury. Something you could do without and probably should, like sugar or booze.

But no. This feeling wasn’t like that at all. It was more like water, oxygen. A flat-out necessity. You went without it for a while, and you choked, and then you croaked, and you blew away like a dried leaf.

He’d been drying up and dying inside for years. And hadn’t known it. Hey, dying felt so damn normal after a while.

The pace quickened without him noticing, because Becca was grinding herself against him, gasping and whimpering as she worked up to one of her awesome, call-the-cops orgasms. He concentrated on bringing her off, massaging her clit with his thumb as he stirred her around with his cock, finding where those sweet spots hid, and ah…there she went. Arching and jerking, her strong cunt muscles squeezing his cock, milking, begging him to join her. Fill her.

Not yet. Not f*cking yet. No way. He wanted this to last forever.

As soon as she had more or less settled down, panting and gleaming with sweat, he resumed thrusting. It went easier now, slicker and smoother. A deep plunge in, a tight, aching slide out. First the quivering resistance of her plushy * on the driving instroke, and her jealous hug-and-grab on the outstroke. Outrageous.

Thank God for the latex. It kept him honest, or he’d have lost it in an instant. It damped the sensations down just enough for self-control. He managed to bring her off a couple more times, but every time she came, it got hotter, harder, wilder. Just a small part of his brain watched from a distance as he went at her, moving her, spreading her. Pumping and ramming against her. The slap of his balls against her wet, slick ass, the sawing of breath, those pleading moans, his, hers, hoarse and dry and desperate. The thundering rumble in his head, of a gathering orgasm that drove him along before it like an oncoming storm.

Sobs, shouts, as something inside him shattered and gave way.

Layer after layer in his mind was smashed through like a wrecking ball, crashing through brick and mortar and concrete, dust and rubble. Each rhythmic explosive charge knocked him deeper into nowhere.

When he came round, he was horrified to find that they were on the floor. Holy f*ck, how did that happen? The coffee table was overturned, books scattered everywhere, her glasses on the rug, the phone beeping, fallen out of its charger. Becca lay beneath him, gasping for breath beneath his weight. Arms clutching his neck. One leg wrapped around his waist, the other twined around his ankle.

He started to lift himself off, his muscles weak and trembling with the aftermath, and felt her * clench around him, echoing the cling of his arms. Unwilling to let him go. It was nice. He liked it.

Which was weird, for him. That kind of move from a woman after sex usually made him feel suffocated.

He had no idea what he’d done in those last few moments during that…was it a blackout, for Christ’s sake? He was almost twice her size. He hoped he hadn’t hurt her. That she didn’t hate his guts.

“Sorry,” he whispered, studying her face.

She smiled, with her eyes closed. “You’re weird, Nick.”

“I know,” he said, in heartfelt agreement. “You OK?”