“That can’t be all,” she murmured, her hands dropping to the table, bracing herself against it.
“I can’t abide sushi.” He pressed his mouth to her neck as she giggled. He let his hands travel up to her breasts. “And I cannot,” he said, filling his hands with her heavy breasts, “resist you. I adore you completely . . . .” He buried his face in the crook of her neck as his hands splayed across her breasts, pinching the nipples between his fingers, feeling them grow and harden in his hands.
Rachel sighed softly and dropped her head against his shoulder as he continued to knead her breasts.
“I have thought of little else but you these last two days. I want to be inside you again, Rachel. I want to be deep inside you, fill you up completely.” With a gentle push, he spread her legs apart with his knee and pushed her sweater and camisole higher, stooping down to take her breasts in his mouth, nibbling their peaks.
She sank her fingers into his hair, pulled his head down. Flynn kissed her mouth, pulled her sweater above her head, carelessly tossing it onto the table as he stood back to admire her. They were perfect, those breasts, and he could not resist taking them in hand again, feeling their dense weight in his palm. But then he slowly turned her around, so that she was facing the table away from him, and let his hands slide over the silky skin of her back, then around her waist, to her belly, and slipped into the waistband of her skirt, to inside her panties.
Rachel sighed again; her head dropped forward. She was wet, and the feel of it kicked him into male overdrive. His body was on fire now, desperate to make love to her, to feel her squeeze around him.
She leaned across the table, her arms spreading along the table to steady herself. Flynn managed to undo his pants, dropping them to his knees. He snaked an arm around Rachel, pulling her to him, and leaned over, his mouth on her ear, her neck. “You drive me mad with desire,” he muttered as he pulled her skirt up with his free hand. “I can’t see you without wanting to shag you.”
“Oh,” she moaned as his hand slipped deeper into her panties. “Keep going.”
It was all the invitation he needed. He pushed her panties down and lifted her skirt. She was bent over the table now, her hips soft and inviting. Flynn positioned himself between her legs, stroked her again until she was slick, and guided himself into her. Rachel instantly arched her back, threw her head back with a long, breathy sigh, and then groaned again, grasping at the table as he began to move in her, his cock sliding in and out, his hand caressing her sex.
It was not a long encounter—she was soon bucking against him, urging him faster, rubbing against his hand—and Flynn could hardly contain himself. She was hot and tight around him, squeezing against him with each thrust, and her hand, which now covered his, was urging him harder. He could feel her body tensing beneath his, could see the arch of her neck and the thrust of her hips into his, and felt himself sliding down the slippery slope to an astounding orgasm.
By some miracle, they slid together, landing in that pool of ecstasy at almost the very same moment, each gasping and crying out as their bodies shuddered against each other.
They remained bent over the dining table for a moment, spent and gasping for breath, their clothing in disarray. It was Rachel who started to laugh first, giggling beneath him, then turning her head to smile at him “I accept your apology,” she said, and Flynn laughed, too, pressed his face against her nape, inhaled the sweet scent of her hair, his hands warm and tight around her until she moved, to get up.
They resumed their dress; Rachel shook out her skirt, smiling at him so happily that he had a pang of conscience as she slipped the camisole over her head.
He couldn’t resist her; he kissed her again as she pulled the camisole down. “There are some things I’d like to explain,” he said, zipping his pants.
“Right,” she said, gathering up her sweater to put it on. “And I want to hear it all. But at the moment, I’m ravenous,” she said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got some leftover turkey and dressing.” She paused to pull the sweater over her head and fish her hair from the collar. “But the dressing burned.” She put her arms around his waist, hugged him tight for a moment, then let go. “I’m just going to get it out and heat it up,” she said, and disappeared once more into the kitchen.
Flynn arranged his clothing, combed his hair with his fingers, and glanced at the table.