Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(82)
So…“What the hell is that?” he asked, almost afraid to look.
Pushing aside his shoulder, she glanced around and down, and then sat back on the bike, her lips rolled in, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.
He sucked his teeth and lifted a brow. “Is that a cat’s tongue?”
She nodded, but this time there was no suppressing her laughter. A snort turned into a giggle, which quickly morphed to a hiccupping chortle.
Rock glanced over his shoulder and down to find Peanut, the world’s ugliest, fattest, most odor-ific tomcat—and the Black Knights’ acting mascot—licking the back of his leg while one severely crooked tail swished back and forth happily.
“Fiche moi le paix.” Get the f*ck away from me, he said, trying to nudge Peanut and his rasping tongue away with one booted foot. But his wide stance combined with the grip of Vanessa’s vice-like thighs and the fact that his jeans were still down around his ankles to preclude the movement. And then the stupid cat made everything so much worse by rising up on his back legs—quite a feat given Peanut’s substantial girth—in order to lick the back of Rock’s knee.
Vanessa lost it. She hooted with laughter and, had he not been being molested be an overzealous tomcat, he could have appreciated the way it made her wet sheath tighten around him. But really? This thing had just gotten weird. And he’d had some pretty funky fantasies over the years, one in particular that involved candy corn and a feather duster, but a fat cat with a sandpaper tongue was too much, even for him.
“Little help here?” he grumbled, turning back to Vanessa, making sure both his tone and his expression accurately displayed his displeasure.
“What?” she asked innocently, batting her lashes and looking too sexy for words, all tousled hair and rosy cheeks. “I thought you liked puss—”
He slammed a finger over her lips and shook his head. “Don’t say it.”
She just grinned evilly around his finger as the rain suddenly let up, no longer lashing against the leaded glass windows. That’s how it was here in the Midwest: thunderstorms rolled out as quickly as they rolled in. And it was almost like their lovemaking had been, maybe not so much caused by the electricity in the air, but certainly enhanced by it.
As least that’s what he was going to tell himself. Because the other alternative was that it was, hands-down, no-holds-barred, the best sex of his entire goddamned life, and he just couldn’t go there. Not now. Maybe not ever. Because it scared the shit out of him to contemplate exactly why that might be the case. I mean, oui, there was the whole getting-it-on on the back of his bike that was undoubtedly super hot, but he highly suspected his level of excitement and enjoyment had less to do with the fantasy-worthy situation and location, and more to do with the fact that it was…well…Vanessa.
“Is the big, bad operator put off by a little feline lovin’?” she taunted once he removed his finger, her light tone and teasing eyes jerking him out from under the weight of his heavy thoughts.
In answer, he grabbed her hips and stroked into her. Hard.
And that accomplished exactly what he hoped it would. Because all the laughter left her face and her mouth opened on a quickly indrawn breath.
“Upstairs?” she asked after a long second of staring into his eyes, her breasts rising and falling rapidly.
“Indeed,” he concurred.
And then the race was on.
He pulled out of her and bent to shove Peanut away while simultaneously yanking up his jeans and twisting off the used condom. She hopped off Patriot and leaned over—mon dieu—to gather up her clothes before sprinting for the stairs.
God love her, she didn’t even attempt to drag on a stitch before she was hauling ass up to the second floor.
Running after her, he barely heard Peanut’s baleful wail of desertion before he was on the second-floor landing, chasing her around the conference table, delighting in her teasing laughter as she headed for the stairs leading to the third-floor living space, totally engrossed in watching the bounce of her round butt cheeks and the occasional glimpse he had of her jouncing breasts.
He made a grab for her on the stairs—all that tan, jiggling flesh was too much to resist—but she twisted out of his grip, and he was left to stumble up after her. Once they made it to his room, he tossed the used condom in the trash, caught her around the waist, and heaved her onto his bed.
She landed with her thighs spread, all that was wet and warm and womanly on display, and he jumped on top of her, settling between her lovely legs, reveling in the fact that she instantly claimed his mouth, sucking and laving and…sucking.
The woman was doing her best impression of a Hoover on his tongue, and the thought of how unbelievably insane that would feel on his dick had the top of his head lifting away.
“You gonna keep your boots on again, cowboy?” she giggled when he kissed his way down her fragrant neck.
He glanced up at her and Mr. Happy once again pounded against his fly because, merde, she was so goddamned beautiful. “Depends,” he smirked. “Would you like me to?”
She caught her plump lower lip between her teeth and nodded, her dark eyes glinting mischievously. “But lose the jeans, will you?”
“I aim to please,” he said, catching one brown nipple between his lips and chuckling when she speared her fingers into his hair, breathing, “Oh, Rock…”