In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(20)

But he didn’t laugh at her. He kissed her hands again. “We touch.” His voice was a low, caressing stroke of deep harmonics across her shivering nerves. “I touch you. You touch me. We kiss, for as long as you want. We take our time. Let things happen like they want to happen. We let it unfold. You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I’m not,” she lied.

“Come here.” He sat on the bed and drew her onto his lap, arranging his cock so it pressed stiffly upright against her hip. So hard, and hot, burning against her. His legs felt strong, ropy and corded.

He cupped her breast. “This works great. I can lean over . . . and do this.” He pressed his mouth to her breast, and the hot, hungry swirl of his tongue brought on a huge wave of emotion, sensation. He was drawing pleasure and sweetness from some magic well she never knew she had inside her, and it ran so deep. Below the bedrock.

She clutched his shoulders. Buried her nose in his thick, tousled hair, twisted her fingers into it, inhaling the scent of his scalp. Her fingers shook with strain as he licked and loved her breasts, bringing the tips of her tight nipples to throbbing points of bright awareness.

The sensation was sweet to the point of pain. A keening ache of longing. She was smothering him, clutching at his head, but the sound that rumbled through his chest felt like a growl of pleasure.

“So soft,” he muttered, fluttering his tongue across her nipple, then drawing it in deep once again. She arched and squirmed in his lap.

“Am I smothering you?” she asked.

“Fuck, no. Cling to me. Grab any part. Squeeze it until I explode.”

She hid her face against his hair. “You sounded like you couldn’t get any air.”

“Who gives a shit about air? I’m so turned on by your perfect tits, I can’t breathe anyhow.”

She smiled against his hair. They were very normal breasts, but if he wanted to exalt them, she wasn’t going to complain. They certainly felt exalted, under his magic treatment.

“You’re the one with the perfect body.” She ran her fingertips over the taut muscles covering his back. “These lats. They’re absurd.”

He looked aggrieved. “I thought girls liked lots of cut muscle. I might have known you’d be the exception, and take me for a steroid-popping dickhead. Of all things for a guy to feel self-conscious about.”

She gave him a stern look. “I am not one of your hordes of girls,” she said. “And I’ll always give you a hard time. I can’t help myself.”

“You know, Sveti, it’s amazing how having your naked tits at mouth level really takes the sting off that remark.”

She shook with silent giggles as he pressed his face to her chest.

It felt so good. Shivering torment, his slow, sensual kisses, trailing tenderly over and under and around her breasts. The energy that charged her body was building into something frightening, unknown in scope. She squeezed her legs around the hot, unstable glow.

He pulled her hand down and wrapped her fingers around his cock. “Pet me,” he said hoarsely. “Get acquainted.”

She did so, exploring him timidly. He was so thick. Taut and hot. His pulse thrummed against her palm. The skin of his cock was so tender, a velvet sheath over that rigid core, flushed and reddened.

“Relax,” he said gently.

His voice jolted her back to awareness of herself. “Hmmm?”

“Your legs. They’re clamped shut. Like a vise. Try to relax.”

“Oh.” It was true. Her thighs trembled with strain. She was squeezing that sweet glow deep inside, keeping it armored by muscular tension. Keeping it hidden and secret. Safe from harm.

But that was for lying in bed reading sexy novels, not for going to bed with a real man. She would have to open up. God, so much could go wrong, she couldn’t even imagine how it ever could go right.

But she kept petting him, with greedy fascination. Following her instincts, following his rough gasps and shudders and groans.

His calluses rasped against her inner thigh, catching on the thin nylon of her stocking. He clasped the top of her thigh, just resting his hand, letting her feel his heat, his strength. His immense patience.

That patience made it possible to relax. Open her legs for him.

He sighed against her chest, and his hand ventured between her thighs, stroking her mound as if it were a shy kitten. His fingers tangled tenderly into her muff, petting gently without penetrating. Every faintest, glancing touch moved her, melted her.

His hand ventured deeper, and her thighs clenched around it, reflexively. His hand remained wedged between them, and he smiled at her as his long forefinger lazily stroked up and down the length of her labia. Up . . . down. Slow and gentle. Teasing, promising, reassuring.

“You’re so wet.” His voice sounded gravelly.

Oh, thank God for that. At least one part of the mechanism was in working order. She clutched his shoulders, clenched around his delving, stroking, clever fingers, gasping. Everywhere he touched or stroked or kissed came magically to life, blooming into brightness, full color, and it was a train barreling toward her now, certain annihilation, but it was too late to turn back, it was . . . oh.

It tore through her, shattering the world.

When she came back from that other, mindless, other-worldly place, her eyes fluttered open. She felt empty. Light and soft, diffuse. She could float on a breeze, like goose down. Dandelion fluff.