Rugged(58)

What were we talking about?

“Oh, there are probably other nice things about the city,” I say. Flint releases me and gazes out the window, looking at the river.

“It’s a good place to meet people,” he says casually, but there’s an edge to his voice. Charlotte. Flint’s ex is the last thing I want on his mind tonight.

“That’s a good start,” I say, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “And there are other things. Traffic. Noise. People letting their dogs pee on your potted flowers.”

“The monsters,” Flint says, faking seriousness.

“There’s a lot about the country that I like,” I say, honestly. “The woods are beautiful. The air’s clean, the water’s clean, the people are friendly.” Some of them I hope to get very friendly with, thank you very much.

“That we are,” he agrees, dropping his hand below the tablecloth to find my knee. Our eyes lock, and the temperature in the room seems to rise by at least ten degrees as his fingers slip underneath the hem of my dress, teasing the sensitive skin there in small, firm circles, stroking higher and higher up my thigh until I shiver under his touch. But I don’t look away. Instead I part my legs just enough for him to brush one finger against my bare, swollen clit.

Luckily my wineglass is already empty, because I knock it over grabbing the table for support. Flint rights the glass and a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“How fast do you think we can get out of here?” he asks, hand still under the table, between my thighs, his finger now tapping out a rhythm against the hot spot aching under his touch. He never takes his eyes from mine as he signals for the check. I worry I might come right here in the middle of this restaurant, but I don’t want him to stop.

“Not fast enough,” I whisper breathlessly, hurriedly slapping Flint’s hand away and turning totally not-suspiciously toward the window to hide my fierce blush and lust-glazed eyes from our approaching waiter. Flint actually laughs at how flustered I am, but that’s fine by me. I’m looking forward to paying him back.



This time, we’re not fumbling at each other’s clothes while we play tongue tug-of-war in an alleyway or stumble drunkenly into my apartment. The entire ride home is quiet, the air heavy and charged with the sexual tension between us. When Flint reaches for my thigh I bat him away with a smile, crossing my legs primly and informing him that he had more than enough playtime back at the restaurant. See? Payback’s a bitch.

Truthfully I want his hands on me again just as badly as he does, but I think it would be lots more fun to slip my heels off instead and then stretch out on the seat so I can rub my feet against Flint’s crotch while he’s driving. So that’s exactly what I do.

By the time we turn onto his street he’s groaning out loud, gripping my ankles with one hand and the steering wheel so tightly with the other that even in the dark I’m pretty sure I see his knuckles go white. Poor Flint. See above note re: payback.

As soon as we’re inside the house, though, Flint’s back in control. I surrender to his mouth, tilting my head back as he trails burning kisses down my throat, my chest, stopping only long enough to pull my tight dress up over my head and toss it across the room. I stand there naked, exposed, nary a stitch of clothing or a shoe to keep me decent.

“Can’t say I appreciated your performance in the truck,” Flint grins. His eyes travel slowly up and down my body, and my pulse quickens under the heat of his gaze. “Got me all riled up now.” Judging by the tent in his pants, I certainly did.

“You want to spank me?” I tease.

I barely catch the glint in his eyes before he grabs me, lifts me over his shoulder, and slaps his rough hand firmly against my ass with a resounding slap. I squeal at the tingle of pain, but it’s quickly replaced by a rush of warmth, and I relax in his arms.

“Again,” I command, shocked at how much I like this. The second spanking hurts less, but the spreading heat that follows somehow feels better, lasts longer. I moan deeply, trailing my nails across Flint’s back.

“Don’t ask again,” he says gruffly, caressing my ass in soothing circles as he carries me to the living room.

“Ever?” I pout, writhing in his grasp, too turned on to lay still in his arms.

“Just not right now.” Flint sets me down on the couch, whipping off his jacket and kneeling before me. “I haven’t tasted you since we were in LA.” I gasp as he spreads my legs wide apart, eyeing my ripe * with a hunger in his gaze. “Don’t move.”

“Then don’t play with me,” I whisper, my voice strained and husky.

“Never.” He dips his head between my thighs, licking me in long, slow strokes that linger on my clit. Oh, how I’ve missed that mouth. When I start to moan, he slips one, two fingers inside me and pumps them in and out, deep and hard, as he sucks my slick nub into his mouth. He bites down gently, and the pressure nearly drives me to the brink.

“Oh God,” I whimper. It’s too much, I’m too close, and I don’t want this to be over so soon. “Hit pause,” I plead, pulling him up onto the couch. He grins at my gamer joke, either because he’s a gentleman polite enough to at least pretend to appreciate my sense of humor, or because we’re both total nerds. Either way, he’s amazing.

As he settles over me, I revel in the weight of his body, the feel of his cool silk shirt against my bare nipples, the rougher fabric of his pants and the hard bulge underneath pressing against my wet *. As he unbuttons his shirt I tug impatiently at his belt buckle—teamwork, for the win. While my fingers fumble I attack his mouth with mine, showing him with my thrusting tongue what I want him to do to me with his cock…if I can ever get these damn pants off of him.