He draws back, his teeth scraping my lips, his beard tickling my chin. His warm breath washes over me, smelling faintly of Whiskey.
Without a word, he shoves his hands under my blouse, finding my breasts and squeezing them in their cotton cups, making me gasp. Pleasure shoots down my belly, pooling between my legs. I wind my arms around his neck, not sure of my balance when he tugs the cups down and thumbs my nipples.
Oh God…
More pleasure zings down my nerve endings, and heat gathers deep low. Pressure is building up, and I don’t know what to do with it.
I need him to take care of it.
Of me.
“Damn,” he growls, pressing his mouth to the juncture between my neck and shoulder, nipping and mouthing my skin, until I push into his hands, into his biting kisses that move up my neck. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
His scent hits me, that spicy musk mingled with car oil and leather, sharp and masculine.
“I want you,” I whisper.
With a curse, he pulls back and before I know it, he whips my blouse over my head and runs his hot gaze over my exposed breasts.
My cheeks are burning. My eyes sting, and I don’t know if it’s from humiliation or that desperate need to feel him closer—against me, over me, inside me.
Everywhere.
His eyes are so dark they seem to swallow the light. He doesn’t move, taking his time to look me over, take his fill, and my nipples harden more under his scrutiny, aching for his touch. I’m caught in a net of desire, paralyzed, unable to escape.
I’m a statue made of clay. I feel like I’ll shatter if he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t do something. My courage, much as it is, fueled by this slow-burning desire for him over the weeks, lit by this sudden clash of our bodies, won’t last long.
The longer he stays still, staring at me, the more my heart races and the more second thoughts start crowding my head.
Nervous and shaky, I push at his chest. “Matt…”
A flash of darkness goes through his eyes. Then he leans back and grabs the hem of his T-shirt, whips it over his head and lets it drop to the floor.
Holy shit… Seeing his perfect chest never gets old. It impacts me just like the first time—the honed muscles, the line of his broad bones under smooth skin, the dark ink wire twining around his body, a white design on the inside of his left wrist.
He moves before I make it out, gripping my chin and lifting my head until I have no choice but to look into his eyes. My breath hitches, caught in my lungs.
I dig my nails into the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I need him to touch me so badly. To kiss me, stroke me, fill me up.
His mouth descends on mine once again, crushing our mouths together, his tongue thrusting against mine, making me see stars. He’s eating me up, mauling me, his hand sliding into my hair and pulling as he sucks on my lips and tongue.
Then, releasing me, he drops his hand to my pants and hauls them down and off me, panties, socks, shoes and all, leaving me naked on the kitchen counter.
“No more games,” he rasps, running his hands over my thighs, spreading me wider, and I gasp as the cool air hits my exposed pussy.
What games? I want to ask, but can’t because his thumb parts my folds and strokes me, a long, deep slide between my legs that has me trembling and moaning his name.
He doesn’t tease. His thumb brushes over my clit once, twice, then presses into me and I choke on a cry. I’m suddenly so frigging close to coming it’s unreal. I’m gripping his arms, probably leaving gouges in his flesh, but my whole existence is centered where he’s touching me, finally touching me, breaching me.
He pushes a finger inside me and I hiss, then groan when he strokes something deep that sends a flood of pleasure through me.
“Please…” If he presses a bit deeper, a bit harder… “Oh God…”
He stops, then the pressure increases, and I’m right there, on the edge again, shaking and clawing at his arms, gasping and moaning.
I can’t recognize myself. Who is this girl who’s humping her employer’s hand—legs spread, breasts hanging out, begging for more? I’d never even been kissed a guy properly before.
And now I’m spoiled for life, kissed so thoroughly I doubt I’ll be able to feel any other kiss, want any other kiss after this one, any other man—and oh God, the way he’s touching me, I’m…
“No,” he says, withdrawing his fingers, and a sob escapes me. His gaze is again boring into mine, dark and hard and inexorable. “You’ll come on my dick.”
I jolt at the words, then again when he captures my mouth in one more hard kiss before straightening and dropping his pants. Distracted from the way my pussy is aching and pulsing, needing release, I can’t help but lick my lips at the way his cock tents his black briefs.
This… this isn’t normal, is it? This isn’t like me. All my life I’ve been a good, quiet girl, keeping my head down and not even looking at guys much. Not except for Jake Hammond at school, and even touching myself at night in bed sometimes thinking of his mouth, but that’s just to be expected. All the girls wanted him.
And who cares about Jake frigging Hammond now, when Matt Hansen is in front of me, every mouthwatering inch of him on display, with the promise of seeing, feeling his cock at any moment? It’s thrilling. Exhilarating.
So damn hot.
I lift a hand to my mouth, trailing my fingers over the tender, reddened flesh, still feeling his mouth there, his teeth, his wiry beard. I slip my thumb into my mouth, needing… needing him. Not sure what to do, how to satisfy that burning ache.
His eyes follow my movements, transfixed, gleaming in the dimness like a wolf’s. “Oh fuck…” he whispers.
And pushes his briefs down, taking his cock in his hand. Long and thick, veined and flushed, it seems to pulse in his fist, and a heavy bolt of lust slams into me, laced with a healthy bit of apprehension.
He’s going to put that inside me?
Unconsciously I scoot back on the counter, trying to get away, until my back hits the wall, bringing me up short.
His eyes narrow. Letting go of his hard cock, he grabs my legs and hauls me back to the edge of the counter. Dipping his head, he pins me with his eyes, with that frightening intensity he has tonight that has me torn between wanting to run away and climb all over him.
His scent hits me again, stronger than before, and my hands trail over his bare chest, over his ink, over his frantic heartbeat, and then drift lower, over his taut stomach, grazing his hard-on.
The sound that escapes him is so animal-like, a groan so deep it raises the fine hairs on my arms. I brush my fingertips over the wet head of his erection again, deliberately, just to hear him make that sound again, feel how my touch affects him.
He’s looking down, where my hand is hovering over his cock, his mouth slack.