Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(65)

“Open a little wider,” he instructed. His nostrils flared as the scent of female need, of sex filled the small space when she let her bent knee fall wide until it was resting against the bulkhead. Her sweet, pink center and the swollen bundle of nerves beneath his thumb were revealed.

Is there anything in the world more beautiful than a woman’s body? If so, he’d yet to discover it.

Continuing to gently ply her, he moved the hand holding her hip until he was cupping her sex. The heel of his palm added pressure to the work his opposite thumb was doing, and his fingers were poised at her entrance.

“Yessss,” she hissed, her pulse beating heavily in her throat. It seemed to be racing in rhythm to his pounding blood. And when he pressed his middle finger into her, just the tiniest bit, just to the first knuckle, he thought he might explode in his jeans.

“More,” she demanded, her hips swinging forward to try to accomplish the feat themselves.

“How much more?” he asked, loving to hear the words on her lips, loving to push her to the brink of her comfort zone.

“All the way more,” she husked. “Until you’re inside me to the last knuckle.”

“Jesus,” he swore, even as he accommodated her, sinking his finger inside her, pumping gently.

She moaned, flinging her arms out to flatten a hand against each side of the lavatory’s bulkheads.

Soft. So unbelievably soft. Like satin. Like silk. Hot. Her inner walls were made of molten fire, burning the skin on his finger. Wet. She bathed his hand in her desire, making the gentle pumping motion slippery and wonderful.

And when he slipped a second finger alongside the first, all the while continuing to rub the little nub of swollen nerves, she hissed and encouraged him by groaning his name. He pumped two more times, stretching her, loosening her, and then he curled his fingers forward, searching, palpating, until…

There.

He found what he was looking for. That secret patch of swollen, slightly rougher skin. When he rubbed his fingers over it, she cried out and surprised him by immediately unraveling, her hips thrusting, her head back, her inner walls squeezing his fingers until his knuckles rubbed together.

“That’s it,” he encouraged her, continuing to use both hands on her. He was determined to make it last. Seeing her come, feeling her come, was more erotic, more sensual than he could ever have imagined and he wanted it to go on forever. His dick pulsed so hard that for a moment, he thought he’d come too. But then he continued to ache, to throb, to hurt, and he knew he hadn’t. Which was good. Because when he did come, he wanted to be inside her. He wanted to feel her walls closing, grasping, sucking along his shaft the way they were closing, grasping, sucking along his fingers.

God, she’s gorgeous. Completely abandoned. Completely wanton. Completely woman. And that she would give herself to him so freely, so totally, made every cell in his body swell up like a peacock strutting for its mate. He felt…possessive. Greedy. Totally gluttonous. And then it occurred to him…he’d given her what she asked for. Now it was his turn.

His turn to taste her.

So when the last tremors of orgasm shuddered through her and she lowered her head, her eyes hazy with spent lust, he carefully removed his fingers and lifted them to his lips. He sucked her passion from his skin, and her taste… Hot damn! Her taste was both wild and sweet. It exploded on his tongue and set off a chain reaction that went to his head, his heart, and most definitely his dick. Just pow! Sex. The decadent flavor of it. The musky smell of it. The soft, slippery feel of it. The total, incomprehensible want of it. It was on him, around him, inside him. And while he sucked his fingers, he watched her watching him…

*

“I called Morales on the sat phone,” Chelsea told Z, sliding into the empty pilot’s seat. There was something decidedly unnerving about being in the cockpit of a plane when it was thousands of feet above the ground. With all the knobs and switches and levers, she felt like any false move, any inadvertent slip, could flip something and they’d immediately plummet out of the sky. Not wanting that, she crossed her arms around her middle and tried to stay as still as possible.

“Morales?” Z asked, fidgeting with a knob. “I thought I heard you talking to your mom.”

“Well, I called my mom first and then I called Morales,” she said, narrowing her eyes when he slid her a knowing smirk. “Not a word,” she warned him.

“Okay,” he relented. “So then what did the mighty director of the CIA have to say?” He pulled off his headset and turned to give her his full attention. She didn’t like it. Partly because his piercing gray eyes were…well…piercing. And partly because, as Tattoo used to say on all the reruns she’d watched of Fantasy Island, De plane! De plane!

“Shouldn’t you be paying attention to the controls?” she demanded, trying to become even smaller. She didn’t like the looks of a blinking red light on the console. At all! “Like that one in particular.” She motioned with her chin toward the distracting, angry-looking flicker.

“The plane is on autopilot,” Z said, one corner of his mouth quirking. “And all that light tells me is that the door to the lavatory is locked.”

“Oh.” She nodded, sighing and allowing herself to settle a little more fully into the seat. “Dan and Penni are in there, uh, well…”