In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(18)

“Should have picked a short guy for your boy toy.”

She winced. So did he. Fuck. The words had just fallen out.

He seized her upper arms, tugged her closer. “I don’t mean to be an *, but I have to remind myself of what this thing is, and what it isn’t. That way I won’t get into a bad place about it. Get me?”

Her throat bobbed. She nodded and then let out a barely audible squeak as he sank to his knees, like a supplicant. He hiked her skirt up, pressing handfuls of it against her clenched, shaking fists.

“Lift it,” he prompted. “Show me more.”

She got on with it, dragging the skirt up, a slow, intensely erotic reveal, all the sexier for how clumsy she was. Her exposed ankles made his cock twitch in his pants. Likewise the shapely calves, the narrow, slender knees. She faltered, halfway up her graceful silk-and lace-clad thighs. Her arms were full of swags of soft crimson fabric.

“Chickening out?” he asked.

She tossed her hair back. Jerked the skirt up. A frilled band of black lace, trimmed with crimson rosettes, contrasted starkly with the pale perfection of her upper thighs.

He pushed her hands higher, to look at the panties. Black lace, stretched over the trimmed-up swatch of muff. His heart thundered.

“Beautiful,” he muttered. “Did you wear this stuff for me?”

She murmured incoherently and nodded. And he believed her. She’d gone to the wedding with Ass-bite, but the lingerie was for him. The shoes, the dress, the shimmering body glitter, the scented lotion. That perfect little fastidiously groomed muff. “I love it.” He pressed his face against her mound and inhaled her intoxicating woman scent.

Each heaving lungful made him gasp for more.

She moaned, twisting his hair as he scattered lingering, pleading kisses over that festive swirl of ringlets at the top of her cleft. He wanted to insinuate his tongue into that vortex. Taste the sweet girl juice.

Rein it in, dickhead. He had to set the bar so high, it’d ruin the sex she’d have with other guys forever. Spiteful of him, yeah, but too bad. It was his only revenge for how badly this was going to f*ck him up. The slower he went, the sweeter the torment. Hours of kissing, playing with her tits. Then when she was naked and spread out, he’d tongue-lash that beautiful muff until she’d forgotten who she was.

Then he’d mount up and go for a long, slow, juicy ride. On her final climax, he’d have her * clamped around his cock. Feeling every flutter, every squeeze, every pulse. His reward.

And his punishment.

His hands cupped her ass, struggling for control. He could do this. He could be a sex toy. Just service her, blow her mind, f*ck her brains out, and walk away, sanity intact. He could.

“A thong,” he muttered. “My God. Your ass is so perfect.”

“I had to wear one,” she confessed. “Panty lines.”

“Of course. Can’t have that.” He hooked his fingers in the elastic and stopped as tension gripped her. He looked up into her face.

“I like the stockings,” he said. “But the rest of it comes off.”

Her breathing was ragged, her soft mouth slightly open. Eyes dazed. She still had not unbuckled her shoes. Her knees quivered.

Sam pried her fingers loose from her grip on the scarlet fabric. Her skirt tumbled over his shoulder, whisper soft, warm, scented. He seized her hand, pressed it against his shoulder, to steady her. Her fingers were chilly. Her nails dug into his skin. He loved their sharp bite.

He pressed his face against her mound. Slowly, gently, breathing her in, nuzzling her. Hanging on to his self-control by a f*cking thread.

When he felt her lean in, he started unbuckling her shoes.

He stood up when she stepped out of them, towering over her. The top of her head fit under his chin. She let her head fall back into his cupped hand with a shuddering sigh. He reached for her zipper.

She put her hand on his. “No, you take something off first.”

He whipped his shirt off and tossed it behind him.

She stared at his torso and laughed. “Oh, please!”

He was taken aback. True, he got strong reactions from the ladies when he undressed, but ridicule was generally not one of them.

“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

She gestured at his body. “Is that for real? Do you work out all day and eat nothing but protein powder and egg whites?”

“I’ve had a lot of time on my hands lately.” He felt ridiculously defensive. “I’m bored out of my f*cking mind on medical leave. But I’m not a gym rat. It just happened.”

She rolled her eyes. “Nobody gets that ripped by accident.”

Fuck it. He stood there stoically, letting her look her fill at the freak show. He was just a sex toy, after all. Sex toys were supposed to be vain and shallow, and eat protein and muscle-enhancing mineral supplements, and buy lots of tight microfiber gigolo clothing.

If it comforted her to think he was that guy, who cared?

She poked at his abs with a fascinated finger, tracing a vein that snaked across his belly. “You have no fat on you at all,” she said. “Just stone-hard muscle. It’s unreal.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “So shoot me.”

Her eyes darted to his scars. “Somebody’s already done that.”

Her fingers slid up to the scar on his chest. A bullet had perforated his lung in the showdown in New Jersey, right after she’d met him, when Bruno had been fighting for his and Lily’s lives. She touched the newer scar, which was still an angry red, low on his abdomen. He’d been gut shot in the line of duty ten months ago. The injury that had stalled his career. The brush of her fingers had its predictable effect on his cock.