“I wrap your hair around my hands and ram all the way home.”
Her breath came as erratically as his. “I love it. Oh God. Fuck my mouth. Fuck me.” Tasting him, feeling him slide in and out of her lips brought her to the edge of orgasm again. She wanted this, wanted him, so badly. He pulsed in her mouth.
“Jesus Christ, I’m going to come.” He groaned, moaned, then growled deep against her ear. “Swallow me. All of me.”
She came at precisely the same moment he did, his thick come shooting down her throat. Bucking against him, she felt everything he did and more, her body drenched with her own juices. She swallowed, then ringed his cock with her tongue, licking away the last vestiges of potency.
He breathed heavily for long moments, sharp, heavy. Then finally, he calmed. Her body still vibrated with orgasm.
“Smell your fingers,” he growled against her ear.
Bethany sniffed, her body’s scent redolent on her skin.
“Taste your fingers.”
She sucked on them.
He let out a long breath. “Now you know what I’m tasting when I go down on you.”
Oh yes, she reveled in the taste and knew they were one for that moment.
“When I kiss you, I can taste my come on your tongue.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love knowing you’ve taken it all, swallowed every drop. Tell me you love it, too.”
“I love your come in my mouth, down my throat,” she said with the same reverent whisper.
“I always knew you loved it, you dirty little bitch, that you forced me to do it.”
His words hit her like ice cubes down her back. Max came alive with a jolt. The receiver bumped her chin. Her eyes popped open. She sat on the kitchen floor, knees to her chest, one arm wrapped around them and her panties damp with Bethany’s excitement.
Oh God.
Those words. She’d heard something like them before. Not those exact ones, but the same sentiment, that she was dirty, that she was the one responsible for what he’d done. She’d heard it in a bad dream. In her worst nightmare.
She slammed the phone down just as she started to hyperventilate.
*
Max was halfway through the doggie door and stuck before she remembered her hips were a tad too big when hitting the hole dead on. She twisted and pulled and pushed, frenzied, as if Bethany’s caller could jump through the phone lines and grab her like Freddy Krueger.
Tears of anger and panic welled up in her eyes. Dammit, dammit. She wiggled and wriggled violently, then collapsed, the bottom of the doggie door digging into her above the pubic bone.
“Calm down,” Cameron soothed.
“I am calm,” she hissed. “Just get me out of here.”
“Talking to yourself again, Max?”
Shit.
She looked up. Arms akimbo on massive hips. Tree trunk legs. Walk-all-over-me boots.
Witt.
Hips still wedged in the doggie door, Max gave him her brightest smile. “Why Witt, whatever are you doing here?”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Max looked from Witt to her butt in the hole and back again. “Well, right now, I’m kind of stuck,” she said, still with the bright smile pasted on her lips.
“Let me rephrase the question. What the hell are you doing breaking through a police seal?”
“Actually, I didn’t break it.” She glanced up at the yellow tape. “As you can see, it’s still intact.”
“Your butt won’t be when you get out of there.”
Ooh, very ominous. She couldn’t see his eyes at this distance, but she was sure they were stormy. Stormy weather ahead. “Ah, do you think you could help out a little here, and we’ll discuss this later?”
Witt tromped up the porch stairs. Max turned sideways to look up at him, and her hips slid free. Her palms skidded across the wooden porch—thank God she wore gloves or her palms would have been chock full of splinters—and she tumbled out in a heap at his feet. Not a good position to be in with any man, let alone Witt.
He wore boots, scuffed, thick-soled, military-style boots, the kind she liked best on a working man. Her gaze traveled his jeans-clad legs, skipped up to his waist. She went bug-eyed when she got to the black and red plaid shirt. She’d once—or twice—had a fantasy about a lumberjack ...
This was all Cameron’s fault. “Dammit, did you push me?”
The words were out before she thought. She was talking to Cameron, of course, since she was sure she’d felt a ghostly hand on her butt.
“I’d be more likely to leave you and call the cops. Is he here?”
She rose, took two steps to the side because, as usual, the man was crowding her, then tugged off her gloves. Shoving them in her back pocket, she dusted off the knees of her jeans. She was only briefly embarrassed by the paint stains on her sweatshirt. Witt didn’t seem to notice. Sucking on her bottom lip, she reviewed her options. Tell him the truth. Or lie. What came out was somewhere in between. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”