Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(51)

He let her pin him down. It was ridiculous of course. There was no way she could force him to keep his hands off her, no way she could match his strength, but if this gave her a measure of control, when her life was spiraling out of control, then what the hell.

So he sat with Suzanne on his lap, his dick in its usual condition whenever this woman touched him, or was close to him, or even looked at him—iron hard.

The minx knew it, of course. How could she not know it, when she was sitting right over his hard-on? But she ignored it, as she continued playing with his mouth, petting him all over.

She ran her tongue around the rim of his ear, the tip following the whorls to the center, while her hands caressed his shoulders. It electrified him to feel her small wet tongue delicately probing. The hairs on the nape of his neck rose.

“Let’s see here,” she sighed. She found his right nipple in the chest hair and rubbed it. Damn, it was like an electric jolt shooting straight to his hard-on. She breathed in deeply, her breasts rubbing against him, as she fingered his nipple. “I’d say, here…” A pink-tipped finger rubbing around the flat areole, “here you’re brick, with copper tones, but here—“ her head dipped and she licked him, and then suckled gently, “Mm. Vermilion. Definitely.”

It wasn’t just his woodie that was hard. He was hard all over, tense and tight. Clenched like a fist. Each slow, lazy lick, each pull of her mouth on his nipple shot straight to his groin.

With a smile and a sigh, she slipped off his lap, kneeling at his feet. Reaching up to his pectorals, she ran her hands over his chest, over his abdomen. The witch bit lightly at the muscles of his abdomen.

“Bay, bronze,” she whispered and her little pink tongue ran over his chest and belly to his belly button. “Sand.” The tip of her tongue fit into his belly button and she bit him, again, not so lightly this time. Her chin rubbed against his dick.

Oh God.

A pull of the strings, and the waistband of his sweats opened. She pulled the sweats down and off and took him in hand.

“The prize,” she breathed and pulled his hard-on away from his belly. She ran her fisted hand down it, then back up. Slowly. Again. And again.

He was dying.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “All sorts of colors,” she murmured. “A rainbow of them. Tea, fudge, cognac.” She cupped his balls then ran her finger up to the tip. He was wet, a second from coming.

Slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, Suzanne circled the tip, around and around. “And here…” her voice was a seductive whisper as she looked up at him, eyes flashing pure silver, “plum.”

She bent, took him in her mouth and sucked.

John exploded out of his chair, pulling her up and carrying her, with every intention of going to the bedroom. He didn’t make it.

He only got as far as the kitchen wall, where he pulled her nightgown up and plunged into her. She was wet and soft, as if she’d come. Maybe she had, while she’d been sucking his dick. It didn’t make any difference because he had no self-control at all. He didn’t even try to moderate his strokes, just pounded into her. It was so hard and fast and furious it couldn’t last long. She moaned, and then cried. When her sheath began gripping him in long liquid pulls, he slammed into her one last time and held himself deep inside her, grinding into her as he came.

They stood there, their breathing loud in the room. John hitched her legs higher around his waist, waiting for some strength to return to his legs and some blood to return to his head.

Her hair shifted on his shoulder as she turned her head into his neck, biting him lightly and sighing.

She kissed his shoulder and whispered, “You know, John, maybe you should see someone about this wall fetish you have.”





CHAPTER TWELVE


“John, I want a tree.”

It was dusk and John was putting the shopping away, his kitchen organization appalling. He kept flour next to dishwashing detergent and sugar next to bleach, but Suzanne held her tongue.

They’d taken a run down to Fork in the Road, which had proved just as cosmopolitan as its name would suggest. A gas station with annexed diner, four houses, a post office and—oddly enough—a well-equipped little supermarket, probably the only one in a hundred square miles. She’d found everything she needed, and now she had to send John out. There were things she wanted to do and he’d just be in the way. Besides, she wanted to surprise him a little.

The trip to Fork in the Road had been quite an experience.

He’d morphed immediately into Midnight Man the instant they’d set foot outside the shack. The man who’d groaned and shook as he made love to her disappeared, as if he had never existed. The man who took his place was as cold and controlled as a cyborg. Each movement measured, economical, physical grace in action. He had a knack of being aware of everything that was going on. “Situation awareness” she’d once heard it called and it applied to fighter pilots. To SEALs, too, it appeared.

He’d been silent on the drive down, concentrated on the driving, constantly checking the rear view mirrors. In the small town, he’d gone into an elaborate ballet every time they moved. It had taken her an hour to realize that he was making sure she was never exposed to gunfire. That, in any attempt on her life, the bullet would go through him first.

It had brought tears to her eyes, which she’d instantly tried to hide. But the Midnight Man was nothing if not observant, damn him. He’d immediately asked what was wrong and she’d had to make some nonsense up about catching a cold. After which, notwithstanding her protestations, she’d had to walk around all afternoon with his heavy sheepskin jacket around her shoulders, covering her hands and falling to her knees.