I loved him this way, loved that I could make him this insane. But just before he got too far gone, he pulled me up his body and took my panties off before I could say, hey, those are my panties.
Then he pushed up my skirt, nudging my knees apart with his own. Gazing down at me with those piercing sapphire eyes, he ran his fingers over me, through me, making me groan and moan and shake and shimmy. “So gorgeous like this,” he breathed as I cried out.
“Need you, Simon—need you, please!” I was ready to tear my hair off my head and throw it at him, if I thought that would get him inside any faster.
Any further thoughts vanished as he slid home. Thick, hard, and ten kinds of fantastic were all I knew the second Simon pressed inside me. “God, that’s amazing,” I moaned, the feeling of him filling me overwhelming me.
And when he rolled us so I was on top, and he thrust up hard inside me, it was perfection.
Until afterward, when we lay in a heap of sweaty limbs, and he asked me how I liked his hammer.
Then it was beyond perfection.
Viv Franklin wants to be swept off her feet by her dream guy, but should she pick the hot cowboy or the smoldering librarian? This romantic comedy pits Superman against Clark Kent in a hot and hilarious battle that promises to rip a bodice or two.
Screwdrivered
“Well, well, well.”
“Lookee what we have here,” I finished, peering up at Clark from where I sat, stuck.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” he answered, walking slowly up the porch steps.
When I’d called him, he said he’d be right over. And he hadn’t laughed, just asked if I was all right and did I need anything. I told him a margarita would be nice. He’d ignored that request, but he had brought his toolbox. Rubbermaid. Red. Stamped with Clark Barrow on the side—in case someone tried to take it?
Sunday Evening Clark was much more dressed down: faded jeans, running shoes, untucked plaid shirt over a white undershirt. I suddenly said a prayer that it wasn’t a tank-top undershirt, that he was the kind of guy who wore T-shirts, and then mentally slapped myself for giving a shit what he wore under his faded plaid shirt. That looked soft and comfortable and warm. I shivered. It was getting cold out here, playing buoy on the sea of porch.
He knelt down in front of me and assessed the situation.
“One would think it unwise, Vivian, knowing the condition of this rotten wood, to traipse about so carelessly,” he said as he poked at the wood around my left leg, which was buried to midthigh. I’d been sitting half on and half off the broken floorboard for the better part of twenty minutes, and was starting to get more than a little agitated.
“One would think that after getting punched in the nose one would be unwise to provoke me,” I said sweetly.
He turned his gaze from my leg to my face, his eyes calculating. “You’re the one stuck in the porch. You sure you want to pick a fight with me right now?”
He had me there, dammit. “Okay, fine. No fight picking. But do something, Clark.”
“I’m waiting for the magic word.”
“Um, now?”
“Really?”
“Asshole?”
“Come on.”
“Clark!”
“Vivian.”
“Oh, fine. Please help me, Clark. Please, please, please?” I managed, gritting my teeth.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he smiled, his face lighting up.
“Still not out of this porch here,” I said.
He nodded. “As personally gratifying as it is to see you like this, there is a bit of storm coming and I’d rather not be out here when it hits. So let’s see what we can do here, shall we?”
“Yes, shall we?” I repeated, leaning back so he could get a better look at how I was wedged.
“Pardon me, I need to get a little closer here. I just—Ah, yes, I can see it there.” Clark had leaned across me, one arm on either side of me as he peered through the broken board to the ground below. His head was almost flush with the floor. And flush with what else was on the floor. Flush with my—Oh my. I unexpectedly felt his breath on my bare thighs. I was dressed in running shorts that left little to the imagination, and my imagination was bombarding my senses with the most inappropriate images.
All I could think about was if he just moved about three inches to the left, he could probably get me off with his jaw alone. And how in world had I never noticed that it was so very strong, so very chiseled, so very lightly covered with Sunday-evening stubble? Stubble that could so very easily drag back and forth across the inside of my legs, up and down, and right and left, and then up, up, and away toward my—
“I’m going to have to go down,” he said, and it took all the strength I had not to bury my hand in that flippy soft brown hair and take him at his word.
“Sorry?” I asked, panting. I was panting, for Christ’s sake! Over a librarian?
Mmmm, over a librarian . . .