Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(35)
Bunching her tank top over the cups of her bra, he slowly pulled back, sucking her lower lip as he retreated and hearing her groan of disapproval. When he finally released her lip, he was charmed to see her catch the plump pad between her teeth, even more charmed to get a peek at that wonderfully sexy half-grin of hers.
“You have the best smile,” he said, his gaze having latched onto her mouth like an antiaircraft missile locking in on its target. He imagined her mouth opening wide as he stroked her to orgasm with his fingers, or wrapped tight around the head of his cock, her eyes sparkling up at him teasingly. “It was the first thing I noticed about you.”
She immediately rolled in her lips, shaking her head. “I should have had braces when I was a kid.”
“Good God, no. Your teeth are perfect in their imperfection. They’re part of what makes you you. And in case you can’t tell”—he used the hand he still had planted on her ass to pull her closer, press her tighter against his raging hard-on—“I find you sexy as hell.”
“You’re crazy,” she whispered, but he could tell by the tiny upward tilt of her lips that she was flattered.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe you just make me crazy.” Not being able to stand it a moment longer, he dropped his eyes from her pretty face. He wanted to see her, let his eyes drink her in, become drunk on her beauty. He wasn’t disappointed. The tender curves of her upper breasts swelled above the black lace cups of her bra, and all that soft, female flesh called to everything hard and male in him. He lifted a hand to weigh her, to mold her, to find she was a fabulously firm handful.
She gasped when his thumb passed over her distended nipple, when he used the blunt edge of his nail to add more friction to the lace covering it. “You’re unbelievably responsive,” he murmured. “I’ve barely begun to touch you and already you’re…” What was she exactly?
Demanding? Her hips and hands were moving against him in the most urgent way. Aroused? There really was no mistaking the warm blush of passion that made her skin rosy.
“Wet.” This time she finished a sentence for him. And boy howdy, what a finish it was! The top of his skull felt like it exploded, and at the same time, the head of his dick released another drop of moisture.
“Christ, Olivia,” he groaned. “I need to look at you. I’ve fantasized so long about lookin’ at you. Seein’ you. Havin’ nothing between us.”
He didn’t wait for her approval, simply yanked one cup of her bra down and marveled at the berry-colored nipple that sprang into view. Her breast was heavier at the bottom than the top, making the peak point upward, as if challenging him to resist it.
He couldn’t.
He plucked at the tender bud with his thumb and forefinger, fascinated to see her areola tighten and crinkle until her entire nipple grew hard and engorged.
“Leo, please,” she gasped. Her body bowed, becoming a graceful arc of feminine surrender. And that went to his head like a double shot of top-shelf whiskey, dazzling him, making him burn. Brave, strong, tough Olivia Mortier, spy extraordinaire, was surrendering to him. He was so overcome by the need to beat his chest Tarzan-style and lift his face to let loose with that famous yell that he figured he needed to find a better use for his mouth lest he scare her the hell away.
And three guesses what “better use” he came up with. Of course, the first two guesses don’t count.
Dropping his chin, he sucked that sweet peak into his mouth. Her nails bit into his scalp, her ankle hooking behind his knee to better align their bodies, and then—
“Ahem!” A loud throat-clearing came from the stairwell outside the galley.
Olivia squeaked—a very un-CIA-agent-y sound—and pulled back. Ow! Leo was pretty sure her fingers took a hunk of his hair along with them. But that wasn’t nearly as heartbreaking as having her delectable nipple pop free of his lips. In a flash, she yanked her bra cup up over her amazing breast and tugged her tank top back into place.
“Now that’s a goddamn cryin’ shame,” he grumped, adding, “and I’m goin’ to kill whoever that is.”
“If there’s any ax waxing going on down there”—Bran. Leo should have known. The guy had the worst timing—“I’m sorry to say, but it needs to be red-lighted right now!”
“Ax waxing?” Olivia lifted a brow, her voice low and breathless. Leo noticed with more than a little regret the passion-heightened color of the skin over her cheeks and chest, and the glossy shine of her kiss-swollen lips. Yep. Bran was a dead man. “What’s he talking about?”
Leo rolled his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”
“Because Agent Mortier’s boss is on the satphone!” Bran added. “He says there’s a problem with the contractors’ boat.”
“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy,” Olivia harrumphed, pushing past Leo and heading for the stairs. “What else can go wrong?”
“Famous last words,” he muttered. And without her tender heat pressed against the length of him, he felt unaccountably cold. Grabbing his sunglasses off the table, he hooked the earpiece over the collar of his shirt before glancing over his shoulder to stare at her retreating back. His eyes were no doubt broody as he watched her disappear through the doorway. The last thing he saw was the gun shoved into a holster at the small of her waist above the round curve of her ass. Obviously, his expression became even more malevolent when Bran took her place in the opening.