Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(44)
She was lush and round, her skin milky white except where her veins showed through, faint and light blue. Her half-dollar-sized nipples with their little pencil-eraser-shaped tips were almost the exact same color as her hair. Dark with a deep blush of fiery red.
“Kiss me, Mac,” she breathed, watching him drink in the sight of her. Her hands coming up to tangle in his hair.
Kiss her. She wasn’t asking him to kiss her on the mouth. And as much as he loved kissing her on the mouth—yeah, loved, and he’d have to worry about that later—right then he wanted nothing more than to duck down and suckle her silly. Suckle her until she writhed against him. Suckle her until she begged him to take her.
Again, it occurred to him that there was some reason he shouldn’t be doing this. Some reason… But he couldn’t catch the fleeting thought. Especially not when saliva pooled hot on his tongue at the same time blood pooled deep in his testicles. His entire body throbbed with every thudding heartbeat, but most of the ache was centered in his cock. He couldn’t help himself. He rubbed his burning length against her, against the sultriness of her, trying without success to combat the pain.
“Mac,” she pleaded again, wrapping her ankle behind his knee, grinding into him even as he pressed into her. “Kiss me. Please.”
And that was all it took. That breathy please falling from the lips of a woman who was usually too proud to beg.
Cursing beneath his breath, he used his forearm to scrape away the stacks of hunting and fishing magazines littering the top of the oak dresser pushed against the wall beside them. He grabbed her hips, hoisting her onto the piece of furniture—her legs immediately wrapped around his waist, just as he’d hoped they would—and dipped his chin to suck the hard bud of her nipple into his mouth.
Sweeter than stolen honey…
That’s how she tasted. Her skin was baby soft against his lips, the tip of her breast hot and firm against his tongue. He laved it, flicked it, groaning when she tossed her head back, the ends of her damp hair tickling the bare skin of his arm. She pressed him closer, digging her fingers into his scalp at the same time she dug her heels beneath his butt. The stitches on his side pulled tight. But the pinch of pain was barely registered, because…
Fragrant as a pie supper…
That’s how she smelled. That spicy-sweetness filling his nose was unique to her. He didn’t know if it was perfume or lotion. But whatever it was, it reminded him of apple cider and vanilla ice cream. Of everything wonderfully all American and deliciously bad for you.
Skimming the backs of his fingers down her stomach, he noted the quivering of the supple muscles there. They were shaking with desire, trembling with anticipation. The button at the top of her jeans gave way with very little coaxing, and the zipper seemed to slide down of its own accord. His searching fingertips instantly met the lace edge of her panties. The fabric was warm and soft, he noted, just like her skin. But he knew it wasn’t nearly as warm and soft as the intimate flesh it was covering.
Lord almighty, how he wanted to touch her there, needed to touch her there. Something inside him, something intrinsic and instinctive, made the urge to feel her heat and wetness an unbearable necessity. He was compelled by some invisible force, some millennia-old urgency to sink his fingers into her, to feel the slickness of her bathe his hand and know that it was all for him. That her body’s response was the feminine answer to his male hardness.
Dipping his middle finger beneath the edge of lace, a tiny triangle of silky smooth hair welcomed his touch. Then…farther…his fingertip touched the topmost edge of her channel, and just as he’d suspected, her skin was so feverish it nearly burned him, so delicate he could think of nothing more than unbuttoning his own fly and pressing the length of himself into her in order to feel all that satiny, wet flesh close around him.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed, arching into him, melting into him like the snow used to melt in the rain during Texas winters. “Oh, Mac, don’t stop.”
He had no intention of stopping. He didn’t think he could stop. It would take a—
“Hey, guys!” The door flew open a split second before, “Oh, hell! Jesus…uh…sorry.”
Delilah’s decadent nipple popped free of Mac’s hungry lips and he yanked his hand from her panties. Jumping in front of her, he shielded her from the view of their most unwelcome arrival. Her elbows bumped into his back as she frantically rearranged her bra and shirt, quickly zipping and buttoning her jeans.
“What the f*ck, Ozzie!” he thundered, reaching up to pat his hair. He could feel it sticking up every which way, courtesy of Delilah’s exuberant fingers. “Ever heard of knockin’?”
“Sorry…I…” The guy actually appeared flustered—not at all usual for Ozzie. Then, that shit-eating grin split the kid’s face. He leaned against the doorjamb, wiggling his eyebrows. “So that whole Pat Benatar, hit-her-with-your-best-shot advice you were spouting out there on the highway was all a bunch of bullshit, eh? I thought so.” He nodded sagely.
“What are you talking about?” Delilah asked. “What Pat Benatar advice?”
“It’s nothing,” Mac said, then hastily added, “What do you want, Ozzie?” He asked the question while glancing over his shoulder at Delilah.
Mistake.
Her lips were moist and swollen from his kisses. Her chin and cheeks slightly pink from the abrasion of his beard stubble. And all he could picture right then was how the rest of her would have looked, so flushed and rosy, if he’d been allowed to finish what he started.