Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(80)

He could feel the struggle in her. The need to give in to the electricity and power that sizzled between them as if they were connected by live wires competing with…whatever it was that was making her hold herself back. Luckily, he’d been through enough battles to know how to maneuver things so she’d end up on the winning side. His side.

“And this.” He grabbed her hand, guiding it to his raging shaft, hissing when her fingers wrapped around him. His hips bucked of their own accord, the muscles of his ass clenching. His sac drew up tight when her cool palm hit the heated skin over his head.

“And this.” He undid the buttons on her shorts and slowly peeled down the zipper. Placing his palm on her belly, he was delighted to feel her stomach muscles quiver at his touch. Her skin was fiery satin. And the small patch of pubic hair that met his thumb when he slid his hand between their bodies and inside her panties was soft as goose down.

“Leo, please, I—Oh Jesus!” He pressed his thumb between her dewy, swollen lips, finding the nub of her distended clitoris. The motion of her hips humping over his thigh grew more frenzied. Her hand on his cock squeezed. Hard. Until a large drop of pre-ejaculate oozed from his tip. It trickled over his head, coating his shaft and her fingers. Then she began to stroke him.

Up and down. Up and down. Her palm, with its tiny calluses, was deliciously smooth and at the same time wonderfully abrasive. His dick grew to prodigious proportions under her ministrations. And he could so easily let her rub him to completion. It’d been so long since a woman had touched him like this. And Olivia’s touch? It was the sweetest he’d ever known.

All right, I really am goin’ to come if she doesn’t stop that. And he didn’t want that. He wanted her. All of her. Surrendering herself to him. Abandoning herself to his every want. Every need.

He stepped back, and she growled her displeasure. “I know, darlin’. I know,” he soothed, kissing her lips, her cheek, her ear, her neck. “I just have to—” He didn’t finish, as eager as she was to get back to business as he pushed her shorts and panties down her long, slender legs. More eager probably, which is why he almost ripped her underwear when he bent to pull them off and they got hooked on her left heel. He was up like a shot once they were free, whipping her tank top over her head and tossing it over his shoulder. It landed with a splat somewhere behind him. The clasp on her bra sprang open with a flick of his fingers. And then…

There she was. Olivia Mortier. The woman of his dreams. The woman he loved. And she was…naked.

No, nude. Because when skin was that flawless, breasts that perfect, hips both lean and curvy, naked just didn’t cover it. She was nude in the way great masterpieces were nude. A work of art that was femininity incarnate. Her little oval belly button beckoned. Her tightly furled, upthrust nipples tempted. Her tiny patch of neatly trimmed, ink-black pubic hair charmed.

She was…woman. And when she reached for him, he’d never felt more like a man.

*

6:17 p.m.…

What am I doing? What am I doing?

Exactly what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. She was making love to Leo. No, scratch that. She was having sex with Leo. No, scratch that. She was having sexual relations with Leo. And if Bill Clinton taught the world anything, it was that sex and sexual relations were two different things.

She could do this. She could give him pleasure with her hands, with her mouth. It was his turn, after all, and she was nothing if not a fair-minded woman. As long as she stopped things before actual intercourse, before the intimacy of joining her body with his, before they shared pleasure so intense that she lost track of where he began and she ended, she’d be okay. She. Would. Be. Okay.

You’re rationalizing, Mortier. And shit. Maybe she was. But that was her story and she was sticking to it. Because she wanted to give him pleasure. I mean, just look at him. All golden and glorious, broad-shouldered and heavy-chested. His stomach was a washboard of muscles bisected by a line of light-brown hair. His thighs were huge and corded, the kind of legs that would keep him standing tall for decades to come. And between his thighs, jutting hungrily, unabashedly, was the most inspiring erection she’d ever seen.

He was long, thicker than her wrist, and heavily veined. His shaft was wider than his head, the perfect male instrument to part a woman’s delicate folds and prepare her to receive the bounty of his girth. In a word: impressive. In two words: Mama want. And in three words? Holy friggin’ shit!

Liquid heat pulsed from her core, wetting her thighs and making them quiver. Her nipples were so hard they hurt. So sensitive the subtlest shift in the air, the faintest wisp of steam curling around them felt as decadent as a wet tongue. She licked her lips, panting as she reached for his shoulders, careful of the butterfly bandages when she pulled him against her. He groaned—a sound of both surrender and warning, like her touch was the source of all pleasure and pain—when they were hip to hip, breast to chest, flaming hot skin against flaming hot skin.

“God, Olivia.” The shower pounded behind him. A gentle hiss of noise that, instead of diffusing other sounds, only seemed to magnify them. Each breath. Each moan. Each flick of a tongue against skin. “You’re beautiful.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. “I was going to say the same thing about you.” She lifted her face for his kiss, reveling in the molten press of his tongue into her mouth, the eye-crossing pleasure of his hands on her breasts, plumping, callused thumbs circling, circling, until she couldn’t hold back a gasp of pure, aching pleasure.