Burn It Up(50)

She smiled. “I like your singing.”

“When have— Oh, to the baby.”

“And in the car. You sang along to ‘My Sharona’ last time you drove me to town. You didn’t know half the words, but I like your voice.”

“Well, I’ll cook for you, then. I cook the worst eggs you’ve ever tasted,” he promised, squeezing her ankles, calves, thighs, hips. “You want them burned and rubbery, or all snotty in the middle?”

“Gross.” The word was barely a breath, as his thumbs ran along the creases of her uppermost thighs, close enough for him to feel the soft tease of her pubic hair. She sucked an inhalation as though shocked or tickled, and Casey made the touch firmer. He planted his knees wider, opening her legs in turn. Her calves were cool at his hips, telling him precisely how hot he was burning for her. His mouth felt dry, cock already hurting from neglect. He let his hand inch closer, closer, until his thumbs found the plump swells of her outer lips. Their collective breath came up short.

He laid the length of his thumb along one edge of her sex and slowly drew the other down the seam, then up. As he brushed her clit, she jolted, grasping his upper arms.

He went still. “You want me to stop?”

“No. It just . . . zapped me.”

“Okay.” He curled forward to kiss her belly through her shirt, hands still frozen. “If anything’s too much, just say.”

“I will.”

He traced both thumbs along her outer folds this time, down and back up. A softer buck answered when he glanced her clit, chased by a sigh.

He smiled to himself. He knew there were men—men like his brother, he bet—who’d find all this waters testing too much work to bother with. Guys who didn’t want to pick the lock, preferring to just go charging through like a battering ram. Casey, however, enjoyed picking locks, both figuratively and literally. Loved a challenge. He loved figuring a woman out, discovering what could melt her nerves away, what could leave her begging for more.

He bet most anybody who hadn’t slept with him would assume he was the battering-ram type, which was fair—he was pretty blunt in most aspects of his life. But in his old line of work, and in bed, he was a perfectionist. An artist, as Emily had called him. He wasn’t jacked like Vince, or freakishly good-looking like Duncan, or any kind of small-town royalty like Miah. He wasn’t even a great person, he suspected, but he was a damn good lover. And he’d stay on his knees all night, taking it stroke by stroke like a painter, if that’s what it would take to figure Abilene out.

“That feels nice,” she whispered. Her eyes were shut, her lips parted.

He took the touch deeper, finding her wet. His breath hitched; his face warmed. His cock ached, dying to get inside her.

“Feels nice to me, too.” Deeper still, until his thumb was slick from her. He rubbed her clit—small circles at first, then lighter flicks. He got his other thumb wet and touched her with both, in tiny symmetrical strokes like parentheses. Her legs tensed and squeezed and a soft moan hummed in her throat.

Bingo.

He gave her exactly that, playing around until he knew how much pressure to use, exactly how slow she liked it. Slow was good—he loved when a woman needed it slow. Seemed like they came for ages when you coaxed it out, instead of a fast and frenzied rush.

Abilene was getting close—he could tell from how stiff her clit was, and how her lips had grown swollen. From the smell of her.

“Can I use my mouth?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

He moved back, dropping onto his forearms. He slid one hand under her ass and eased her thigh wider with the other. He took her in with a long greedy breath, and sighed his satisfaction right there against her *.

There was a lot to be said for deprivation where sex was concerned, and aside from the odd glance of his nose, he ignored her clit to start. He pressed kisses along her seam, licked her lightly, then deeper. He hadn’t tasted this in far too long. So long she could have been his first, for how exotic it felt.

He gave it to her like that for long minutes, until her fingers were in his hair and her belly was quivering with little gasps. When her legs tensed, he eased them wider. He didn’t hide his own excitement—he moaned as loudly as he dared and let the odd sigh steam her skin.

“Casey.” The hands on his head were growing plaintive or bossy, fingers tugging at his hair.

“What do you need?” He knew but wanted to make her say it.

“Higher,” she murmured.

He had no doubt she was too shy to say “clit” but no matter. Maybe given time, she’d learn to get demanding. Casey liked few things more than getting ordered around in bed, especially by shy girls. He rewarded her with a long, slow lap of his tongue, all the way up and over her clitoris.

She gasped, grip tightening. He gave her another stroke, another, and crept that hand on her thigh up closer, closer. Close enough to run his thumb along her wet lips, then dip inside. Another gasp, and it was all he could do not to free a hand and touch himself. His dick was a screaming frustrated beast.

He closed his lips around her clit, working it with his tongue as he eased two fingers inside her. Was she thinking about what might come next? About his cock? Was she thinking of him at all, or of whatever mysterious fantasies hatched inside women’s heads when they were inching toward orgasm? He didn’t care, as long as he was the one getting her there. He worked his fingers in and out, reminding her of what she hadn’t felt in over a year, teasing himself with what he hadn’t done since last spring. Imagined how sweet it’d feel to sink inside her, right here, and slowly, torturously, edge himself to a body-wringing release.