Matt did not hesitate; he surged upward so that his mouth was on hers, devouring hers, as his hands slipped into her filmy blouse, pulling her forward until he could slip it off her. She felt a cool burst of air on her back, felt the heat of him on her chest as his fingers sought the hook of her bra and released it. Her bra went slack and slid down one arm. She grabbed it, fumbled out of it, and tossed it somewhere, who knew, because Matt’s mouth was on her breast, devouring first one, then the other, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth shot down to the apex of her thighs. The sensation of his mouth and hands washed over her in one hot tide, pulsing between her legs.
He pushed her skirt up, pushed her legs apart, while she just sat there, the pulse racing between her legs now, beating out a desperate rhythm toward a climax her body had been denied for four years.
And then she felt his mouth over her panties, heard his strangled moan, and then the cry of pleasure that was hers. He moved against her, and she realized she was panting. The fabric of her panties suddenly disappeared, and she was shaken by the flawless and intense pressure of his tongue between the slick folds of her sex.
Rebecca cried out to the ceiling as her body seized around his head, quivering uncontrollably with the pleasure. With his hands, Matt pulled her farther down, then held her hips steady as he slowly and deliberately licked the valley. Her panting turned to groans of pure bliss as the pressure in her groin built to an intolerable pulse. “Make. Me. Come!” she said through gritted teeth, grabbing onto his shoulders, his head, his hair, whatever she could grasp in the fog that surrounded her, unable to endure the torture of his lips or his tongue another moment. And suddenly, so suddenly she could not catch her breath, his lips closed around her flesh and he sucked it into his mouth.
The climax was deafening in her mind, a heart-stopping release of four years of pent-up frustration, spilling out of her like water over a dam, spilling onto his mouth, his hands, his couch. Her cry sounded garbled and raw, a primal voice in the hot air around her, and she felt herself sinking fast, sinking and sinking . . .
The next thing she knew, she was lying on the couch. Alone. And everything was spinning. Rebecca opened one eye. Then the other. Matt was standing above her—both of him, their hands on their hips, their eyes peering down at her. She tried to smile, and the Matts came down on their haunches next to her, put their hands on her damp forehead. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.
“I have that effect on women,” he said, and picked her up, carried her to the guest bath.
That night, Rebecca dreamed of the person she might have been. Her father had died and she was the head of LTI Enterprises. And she wasn’t an inexperienced fool, but a terribly competent executive, and the members of the board of directors were all looking at her with great approval.
The only problem was that she was naked.
That caused her to sit up with a start . . . to discover that her head was aching something fierce, it was pitch black, and she had no idea where she was. She blinked against the darkness as her memory began to return in little pieces, and it at last seeped into her brain—she was at Matt’s place.
Oh. Hell.
Not only had she kissed Big Pants, she had let him do things to her that had never been done to her quite that well. Oh yeah, it was all coming back to her, tumbling in her brain like so much debris, bits and pieces of a night—and while it was, best to her fuzzy recollection, spectacular, she had not intended this to happen, ever! Never!
Rebecca promptly fell back on the bed, slung an arm over her eyes. Still . . . it had been outstanding. So outstanding that she felt it now, a shiver of it coursing her body and landing in the pit of her groin. Or maybe, because it had been four years, she was just all giddy with the excitement of having been freed . . . but she could remember the strength of his hands on her hips, holding her still while he sent her into an oblivion of pleasure, where she knew nothing but the feel of her body pressed against his, every rock hard inch of him, the sensation of his mouth on her, the sound of his breathing, the moans, the release . . .
And then what? Rebecca suddenly sat up, looked to the rest of the bed, felt it with her hands. Empty. Okay. But what did it mean?
It meant, she suddenly remembered as her stomach rebelled, that she had had too much to drink, and with a start, she forced her legs over the side of the bed, felt the spin in her head spiral down to her stomach with violent force, and lurched forward, groping along the wall until she found the bathroom.
Afterward, she lay on the cold tile floor until she was certain that she was going to live. Not that she particularly wanted to at this point, but if she was going to be lucky enough to die, she at least hoped it would be somewhere other than his bathroom floor, please God.
When she was able to sit up at last, she realized she was wearing nothing but a skirt and a bra (that was on her very crookedly), and couldn’t even begin to guess where blouse, boots and, hell, her panties might be. This was not good. While she was all for loosening up a little bit, she could clearly see that the new, alter ego Rebecca was going to have to be lassoed and hog-tied.