“Maybe.”
His hands go behind him as he stretches his torso out. “I wanted to take you to dinner and then to my place for dessert. You didn’t want that, so I switched to the backup plan.”
“Which was?”
“Getting to see you somewhere without a bed instead.”
I smirk. “Are you really going to let that stop you?”
He growls as he moves closer. My breath catches at the predatory look in his eye. The playfulness is gone, replaced with a look so intense, so starved, that I actually shiver.
I think he’s going to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hands are wrapped around my waist and he’s moving me so I’m standing in front of him. My body obeys, like it’s turned over all control.
Maybe it has.
I’m turned and sat in front of him on the ledge of the picnic table. His legs are on either side of mine, my back against his chest. His lips are against my ear, whispering something I can’t hear over the anticipation of what he’s about to do.
He reclines back just a touch and I lean along with him. His hands find the sides of my thighs, squeezing them. I shiver mercilessly, every synapse firing all at once as he broaches the waistband of my sweatpants. His hands are flat against my skin, not missing an inch of contact on their down my stomach.
I feel his cock harden against my back. I want to reach behind me and cup it in my hand, massage it through the fabric of his pants, but that would require more coordination than I’m capable of right now. His right hand finds the lace of my panties. One long finger runs from the underside of the wet panel to the top near my belly button.
“God,” I gasp, prepared to beg for more. Mentally berating myself for not just letting him come to my house, I try to keep my breathing even. “Landry?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Make me come.”
“Fuck,” he groans, the reverberation of his torso just making me wetter. His fingers slide beneath the edge of my panties, this time dipping into the seam and sliding from my clit down to my ass. “I was right.”
“About what?” I grimace, raising my hips to try to initiate more contact.
“You want me as bad as I want you.”
“You think?” I try not to get exasperated, but it’s so hard with his finger slipping up and down my slit, his cock pressing against me. When he chuckles at my response, the urge to get annoyed gets heavier. “If you can’t do the job, I can do it myself.”
I almost don’t get the words out before his finger sinks into my body, making me cry out. “Ah!” I moan, bucking against his hand.
“Shh,” he whispers, pressing kisses along the side of my face. “Be quiet.”
“I don’t care,” I cry.
“I can tell,” he chuckles again, adding another finger into the mix.
His free hand presses against my belly, holding me firmly against him. My head falls back. My eyes flutter closed as he works his fingers in and out of my opening.
I spread my legs as far as I can, needing, craving, beseeching all the connection he will possibly give me. “Landry,” I moan as the pads of his fingers find my clit. “Fuck.”
“You would be getting fucked if you weren’t so hard-headed,” he whispers in my ear. His fingers roll over and over the swollen bud. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? You’re imagining my cock, the same one that’s hard as fuck right behind your ass, sliding inside you. You’re thinking about what it would feel like as it swells while buried in your pussy.”
“Fuck you,” I moan, rocking my hips to meet his hand.
“Next time. Next time, I promise.”
My vision is blurred, the build-up quickening, ready to boil over. I suck in a breath.
“You feel so good on my fingers,” he says against my ear. “So fucking wet. I can’t imagine what you would feel like riding my cock.”
“Oh, hell,” I moan again as he gives my clit a final flick and sinks his fingers into my opening once again. He wastes no time stroking in and out of me, his pace in beat with my stuttered breaths. My hands grip the sides of his muscled thighs. They flex as my fingers drill through the cotton and into the muscled flesh beneath. “Landry”
“Come for me, baby,” he growls in my ear.
“Just like that? Do it just like that . . . Ah!” My head jerks to the side as my body clenches around his fingers. A dozen lights explode in my vision. He maintains his pace as I come apart. “I can’t! Lincoln! I can’t! My Godddddd. . . .”
His chest rumbles and I figure he’s chuckling at my outburst, but I can’t hear him over the roar of blood in my ears. Slowly, I begin my descent back to earth. As if he understands my body, he eases his tempo, and as I still against him, stops.
My hair is a wild mess, my head buried beneath his chin. I’m so content, so beautifully tired, that I want to curl up on his lap and go to sleep. He brushes my hair off my face and kisses my forehead.
After everything that just happened, that’s what wakes me back up to reality: the kiss on the forehead. The sweet, delicate kiss on the forehead sends off warning shots in my brain. Even so, I have to literally count to three in my head to make myself sit up, stand, straighten out my clothes, and step off the picnic table.
When I turn back around, he’s still sitting there. His elbows on his knees, bent forward. “You good?”
“If you’re asking if I enjoyed that, I did,” I smile.
He laughs. “I already knew that. I’m asking if you’re okay now.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Call it a guess.”
Sighing, I stick a hand on my hip, hoping it makes me look nonchalant. “I’m fine. Deliciously tired after that little workout.” Glancing between his legs, I pull my gaze back to him. “Are you okay?”
He leaps off the table so he’s standing beside me. “I’m great.”
“But you’re still hard,” I say, pointing to the protrusion sticking from his pants. “I kind of feel like I should apologize. Or, you know, return the favor.”
My mouth waters at the thought of taking him in, showing him the attention he just showed me. That’s dashed as he shakes his head.
“Nope. That was perfect.”
“But . . .”
“That happens to be the best thing I’ve ever watched.”
“Oh, come on,” I laugh, heading towards my car. Why I’m blushing now, after what he just did to me, I don’t know. But I am.
“Can I see you again?”
I glance over my shoulder. His cheeks are pink, his hat sitting off-balance on his head.
“Did I tell you Dr. Manning came by my office to see if I knew who you were?” I ask.
“Who in the hell is Dr. Manning?”
“The guy that got off the elevator. In the scrubs. Remember? He asked if you were Lincoln Landry?”
He smirks. “The asshole. Got it.”
“Yeah, and he was pretty excited about meeting you, although you denied you were you.”
“Ah, he’s a fanboy.”
“I don’t think so,” I laugh. “He’s a very prominent physician.”