Well Suited (Red Lipstick Coalition #4)(34)

A wealth of muscles hid under the clean lines of his suit, rolling, corded, tight muscles, exposed little by little as I unfastened each pearly button. My fingertips were thirsty to map the topography of every one. He was the only man I’d ever been with who had a body like this. Muscles, sure, on occasion. But never this. His was the body of an athlete in the shell of a businessman, and I wondered as my hands skimmed the discs of his pecs and across small, tight nipples what his motivation was.

His hand gripped my thigh, forcing it far wider than necessary to fit his hips. With a slow grind, he pressed his hard length into me.

Control, I realized. I imagined he liked the control over his body, the exertion of his will against his physical self. I also imagined that he wasn’t a halfway sort of man. If he decided to work out, he’d push himself to the limits of his body. And then I suspected he’d push it one step further.

I moaned into his mouth, my hands sliding over his hot skin, up to thickly muscled shoulders, catching his shirt on my wrists to rid him of it. My dress was hitched up to my hips, the black skirt hooked in the bend of my thighs and spread out under me. He sighed as his hand slipped high enough to slide his thumb under the silky black fabric.

My body remembered his, ached for his. I didn’t realize just how much I’d been holding back, what I’d been tamping down. I’d tried to box up a tiger in cardboard, and it’d shredded the box the second it had the chance.

I reached for his belt, ready to let something else loose, but his hips backed away with his lips. Down my body he moved, kissing a trail across my neck, my collarbone, my sternum. Broad fingers unbuttoned my shirtdress and untied the sash at my waist, exposing my torso, then my stomach, then my hips completely.

He skimmed the eyelash lace at the edge of my bra, sweeping the curve. My breasts ached, heavy and swollen. My bra barely contained them.

“You always surprise me, Kate,” he said just before his lips brushed the swell of the breast currently residing in his palm. His voice was rough, low, rumbling.

“What did I do?” I asked.

“This bra is not at all practical.” He smirked, his dark eyes flashing a glance up at me.

“No, but it’s pretty and French, and I love it.”

“So do I.” His fingers hooked the edge and pulled until it rested outside the curve. His skin was hot against mine as he cupped the weight and squeezed, bringing his lips to the tight peak of my nipple.

My lids fluttered closed with the sweep of his tongue, my back arching, hands cradling him to me.

Control, his over mine. And I didn’t want it back, not until he’d taken his fill and given me mine.

It was a strange, bodiless sensation—to feel the need to do nothing. I didn’t have to lead. I didn’t have to flip him over and do what I needed to do. I didn’t have to put his hands where I wanted them—he knew where they belonged. And that afforded me the luxury of lying boneless beneath him with nothing to think about but what I felt.

And I felt everything.

The slickness of his tongue drawing my aching nipple deeper into his mouth. The weight of his body pressing me into his bed. The contained strength of his hand testing the weight of my breast. His breath, noisy and puffing against my tingling skin.

His free hand hooked my hip, squeezed with savage ownership, slipped into my panties. Fingertips grazed the warm center of me, dipping gently into my flesh, slicking itself before brushing my swollen, aching clit with a simultaneous flick of his tongue against my nipple.

I moaned, wriggling under him. My fingers unwound from his hair, moving for his belt again. And this time, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

The metal rattled, my hands rushing to unfasten his pants before diving inside. I found him hot and hard and heavy, the tip weeping and slick. My thumb slid across it, spreading the bead across the velvety skin of his crown, fingering the ridge, the notch, the slit.

Impatient. I was impatient, the tiger let loose and unable to be caged again. I mewled my frustration, shifting to get my hips closer to his, but with his mouth still paying homage to my breast, he was too far away.

He wanted to take his time. It was clear in the way he teased me, slipping nothing more than the tip of his finger into the heat of my body. He tried to move, tried to take his lips to the place where my thighs met.

But that was not what I wanted there.

He chuckled against my breast when I urged him up my body again.

“If I only get you once a week, I intend to enjoy you fully, Kate.”

I groaned, rolling my hips to force his finger deeper, but I was denied once again.

“We didn’t decide how many orgasms of yours I get every week.” He circled my clit with his thumb, dipping that teasing finger in again.

“As many as you want,” I breathed, the sound touched with a hint of something I could only call a whine.

“Well, in that case—” He slid his finger into me, all the way to the knuckle.

I flexed into him with a groan that started deep in my chest and hung in the air for a long, heavy moment. He squeezed. I squirmed.

Because it wasn’t enough. I’d thought it would be. But nothing would be enough, not until he did what I truly wanted.

“Fuck me, Theo,” I whispered.

His entire body reacted, tightening and curling around me, in me. His pants were gone with barely a shift. Then my panties. My dress was shucked off my arms, then my bra in a blur between kisses. And then we were naked, a hot tangle of arms and legs, hips and lips locked together. We rolled once, putting me on top of him, my hair falling around us like a curtain, filtering the golden lamplight. The kiss didn’t stop, not until I backed toward his crown, fitting the tip of him at my core.