“So sweet,” he whispered into her hair.
She was so close she could feel the testosterone-laced heat rolling off his body. His belt buckle scraped against her blouse, and his hard penis pressed against her skirted belly as she stared up at his full lips shadowed by a day’s growth of beard. His hand skimmed across her hips and then corralled her. She wanted to be corralled.
“I’ve thought about you, about us, so many times,” he rasped and snuggled his stubbled chin against her temple, lightly abrading her skin.
“Me too.”
His smile at her confession made her toes dance.
“We were amazing together.”
She nodded, afraid to say more lest her voice betray the depth of her own desire. He’d know soon enough.
His lips, moist and warm, brushed across her forehead, leaving their imprint. “We should be volcanic now.”
His hand began to massage her breast through her blouse while the other hand traveled down her belly, inching her skirt up until it lodged between her legs, rubbing the silky fabric of her undies so it pulled on sensitive areas.
Her nipples hardened and her underwear became moist. The need he was creating clenched deep inside her womb.
“Libby.” He looked at her as if waiting for a sign.
She tilted her chin up in offering and his mouth descended. Clinging to him as his lips caressed hers, her fingers dug into those roped and stalwart arms. He deepened the kiss, consuming her mouth. The yeasty traces of beer snagged memories of passions past, bringing them to the forefront with a primal roar.
As he kissed her, deep, penetrating, his tongue dancing with hers, he pressed her back to the mattress and covered her body with his. Heavy, strong, firm, solid, his weight drove his denim-clad hips and his hard penis into her softness until she opened her legs, pulling them up so he could nestle between them.
His lips caressed her cheek, the line of her jaw, the skin of her throat. When he found her collar bone, he suckled there before venturing up, behind her ear. He knew her so well. Knew what caused the sharp, heated streaks of desire to pulse through her. Knew where to press and where to lick and where to breathe against her heated skin. He remembered.
Like a log assaulting a gated entry, he thrust against her, clothing blunting none of his need. Her body was giving way, weakening, beckoning. And she knew it was just a matter of moments before she’d welcome him.
“I want to strip you naked.” He aimed his chin at her blouse. “Everything.” He rolled off, and she gulped in a breath as she sat up.
Everything was moving wonderfully fast.
“You first.”
He smirked as he rose off the bed and planted his feet on the floor. “Gladly.” His fingers tugged at his buckle.
“Let me,” she said, leaning forward to reach for him. Her fingers grazed against the callused palms of his large hands. Hands that could be as tender or rough as the work demanded.
How many times had she done this for him? Many. Very many. But not enough. And for five long years—never. She felt nervous and giddy, like the schoolgirl she had been when they’d first made love.
She pulled against the large silver rodeo buckle, inscribed with a testament to his prowess with a horse. But she knew eight seconds would be nothing compared to the bucking they would be doing.
The buckle opened and the belt ends flapped against his hips. She undid the button and slid the bulging zipper down. Then she reached her hand into the dark opening. He’d gone commando, like he’d often done before when he knew they’d be making love. Like he’d chided her to do, but she never could. Her fingers slid under the denim fabric.
She felt for the soft-skinned hard rod that leaned left on a bed of coarse hair. His chest rose in a sharp inhale as she wrapped her fingers around the hot, steely pole. It twitched with life and vigor.
He pushed down his jeans, pushing her hand away as well, as he kicked his feet free of the pants.
“Your foot? Your ribs?” she asked.
“All the blood’s rushed somewhere else, darlin’,” he growled as climbed on the bed, rising up on his knees.
Freed and springing to life, the long, thick, engorged member begged for attention.
“Now you,” he commanded before she could give into the urge to touch again. She didn’t have time to move. He’d grasped the ends of her ruffled top and tugged it upward. It glided over her head and went flying to the floor. With a snap of her bra clasp, her breasts were free, the bra sailing in the air.
“God, Libby.” Warm palms caressed while a thumb tortured each nipple. He’d always praised her breasts.