Tied (Tangled, #4)(34)

She’s perfect. It shouldn’t surprise me—I know what she looks like. But still, every view of Kate’s firm tits, her flat waist, her toned, smooth legs, revs me up like a kid getting his first glimpse of po**rn.

Because she’s mine. Because she’s amazing. Because she wants me as badly as I want her. And this is the way it’s supposed to be—the way it’s supposed to feel. The way it always will—an intense haze of lust and heat and adoration.

Her heavy-lidded eyes look down at me as I lean forward and kiss the skin around her *. She’s completely smooth and soft—freshly waxed. Kate pulls back just a bit at the contact.

“Tender?” I ask.

It’s times like this I’m particularly glad I’m a guy. Because manscaping with an electric razor is one thing. Getting hair ripped out in large clumps with hot wax? No thanks. Sounds like a goddamn torture technique, doesn’t it?

Though the results are awesome.

She exhales. “Just a little sensitive.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

I cup her ass and bring her sweet snatch to my mouth. I caress her with my tongue—like an artist stroking a fresh canvas. Slowly at first. Then deeper, with more purpose—more pressure. And I’m overwhelmed by the texture—the sight, the taste, and the scent. It’s sublime sensory overload.

The saints can keep heaven, because this spot between Kate Brooks’s legs is so much f**king better. Paradise on earth.

We’ll stop right here for a second. Don’t want to ruin the vibe—but we should talk about a “very special” topic. A topic that the male youth of today are tragically under-informed about. I like to call it cunning linguistics.




You may know it as going down. Dining at the Y. Carpet munching. Having a box lunch. The point is, *-eating is an acquired skill. All that making-the-alphabet-with-your-tongue crap is for lazy schmucks who couldn’t find a G-spot with a f**king flashlight and a navigation device.

You have to hone your craft—develop your technique. It’s a lot like . . . basketball. Just knowing the right moves isn’t a guarantee you’re gonna score points. Because you have to know whom you’re playing with—the type of moves they’re partial to. Too much attention to a sensitive clit kills the momentum. Not enough attention and the chick will be checking her watch thinking, Is he done yet? Body language is crucial. Reading the signals—taking cues.

At the moment, Kate’s * is dripping—wet desire clings to her thighs. And it’s f**king glorious. Women should never be embarrassed about being turned on. Even if you squirt like a high-powered water gun or gush like Old Reliable—be proud. Guys love it.

Because it can’t be faked.

As “Sally” demonstrated in that 1980s Billy Crystal movie, just because a woman acts as if she were coming, it doesn’t mean she really is. For some, every pant, scratch, and squeal may be suspect. Is she really getting off? Or is she just tired of getting nailed? But feeling, seeing, that slick desire tells men that you’re actually into it. That they’re doing it right. And that makes us guys want to do it more.

Now that my good deed is done for the day—back to the bedroom.

Kate’s hips start to rotate against my face. My hands help her along. She leans her upper body back against the wall. Her breaths come faster and her face turns upward. Her eyes close. Then the explosion comes. She grabs the back of my head, holding me in place as she clenches and grinds against me. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Fucking gorgeous.

After a minute, her grip loosens, and her eyes open. She looks down at me with a satisfied smile, and I kiss a path up her body as I stand. Her limp arms rise slowly up and around my neck, and just before she presses her mouth to mine, she whispers, “So good.”

I thought so too, but it’s always nice to hear. As she kisses me, my hands find her ass again. Kate’s ass reminds me of a kid’s favorite stuffed animal. Once it’s within my reach, I just can’t seem to let it go.

I drag her up my body and her legs lock around my waist. Now that I’ve gotten Kate off, my plan is to slow things down. Take our time. Because once you have kids—time is never your friend again. Even in the dead of night, there’s always the thought, the nagging f**king possibility, that time will run out. But that’s not the case now.

James—whom I love with everything I am—is my parents’ problem. I plan to make the most of it. By spending the next few hours doing all the fun, naughty—loud—things I wouldn’t risk doing when he’s nearby.

“I owe you a massage,” I whisper to her.

But Kate has other ideas. She reaches down between us and pulls my rock-hard di**ck out of my swim shorts. She strokes it expertly, until my eyes cross. “You can massage me later. I need you to f**k me right now.”

Christ. I love it when she gets bossy. With one hand, I push my shorts down the rest of the way. Then I line us up and slide slowly inside. “God damn.” Her body swells around me. Takes me in and holds me tight.

It might sound stupid—overly romantic—to say that Kate’s body was made for mine. But that doesn’t make it any less true. My hips pull back, and her muscles squeeze harder, not wanting to let me go. I push in deeper till Kate’s ass hits the wall behind her. I pump into her with short, hard strokes, thumping against the wall in a drumming rhythm. We gasp and moan together—cursing and humming—with every thrust.