He pressed his erection tightly into her stomach, and, holding her eyes without flinching, he commanded their movements, rolling his hips into hers, his jean-covered legs brushing into her naked ones, his bare feet careful not to step on hers.
“I don’t know this song,” she said in a breathy voice, her breasts thrusting into his chest with every shallow breath.
“It’s Meghan Trainor and Charlie Puth singing. Puth cowrote it with Julie Frost.”
“Sounds like a love triangle,” she said. “I like it.”
“Me too.”
“I could fall in love with it.”
“Me too,” he said without a shred of humor. “I could dance to it forever.”
“Me too,” she moaned, her body throbbing for more as he pulled her impossibly closer, his thigh pushing between her legs.
Margaret arched her back and widened her legs, whimpering as he pushed his thigh against her wet, pulsing mound.
As the music reached a crescendo, Cameron’s arm dropped lower so that his palm pressed against her backside, grinding her against his leg.
“Your eyes are black, Margaret Story,” he whispered before dipping his head and taking the lobe of her ear between his teeth.
An intense heat pooled between her legs, and she ground herself against his thigh shamelessly, reaching for his shoulders and gripping them tightly for leverage.
“Cam . . .,” she moaned, letting her head fall back.
Until the dawn, let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on.
His lips were hot and hungry against her throat—licking, sucking, kissing—and his hips kept moving into hers as she rode his thigh. Her sex, soaked and throbbing, slid against the hard muscle of his thigh.
“I want you to come,” he growled into her ear. “I want to feel you come against me.”
“Oh God,” she moaned. “I can’t do this. I . . .”
“Yes, you can. Come for me, baby,” he whispered, his hot breath in her ear making her own breathing so fast and erratic, she panted against his neck.
Widening her legs, she opened the valley of her clit and leaned forward until the coarse denim of his pants made contact with the hard, throbbing bud of her sex, and that’s all it took. She exploded against him, coming in waves of intense pleasure as he held her close and whispered filthy, delicious things in her ear.
“That’s it. Come, baby. Fucking come all over me, sweetness. That’s it. That’s it, baby.”
The tremors subsided, and she realized she was completely limp in his arms. When her body was finally still, he swooped her into his arms, and she opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her tenderly.
“There’s so much more to you than I ever dreamed,” he said. “And trust me, Meggie, my dreams were already pretty good.”
She sighed, grinning at him, knowing her cheeks were ten shades of crimson. She burrowed into his neck and closed her eyes.
“I can’t believe I just did that.”
His lips landed on her hair, and she heard the smile in his voice when he answered, “Honestly? Me neither. But I love it that you did.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “I really am dirty, you know.”
“Uh, yeah. I know. I just watched you come on my leg.”
“No,” she said, laughing. “I mean, I’m caked with mud. I need a shower.”
“What if I don’t feel like putting you down?”
“Okay. You win,” she said, relaxing in his arms. And she would have happily stayed that way forever had her eyes not glimpsed a mouthwatering veggie, cheese, and bread platter over his shoulder. Her stomach let loose the biggest, longest, loudest, most unladylike bellow she’d ever heard.
“Any chance you’re hungry?” asked Cameron.
She shrugged. “What makes you think that?”
He lowered her gently to the floor. “How about you go take a hot shower and I’ll finish up here? You need to eat.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
As she turned for the bathroom, he said, “Thanks for the dance.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Thanks for the orgasm.”
“Thank me later . . .” His eyes burned feverishly. “After three, four, and five.”
How her knees didn’t buckle as she closed the bathroom door behind her was a mystery that she would simply have to live with.
***
An hour later, Margaret sat across from him at a rustic table in the garden behind her cottage, flickering candles brightening the encroaching dusk, a half-eaten platter of food between them, and her clean pink feet on his lap. He rubbed them absentmindedly as she laughed at his attempt to analyze the wine they were drinking.
“ . . . and, um, grass? Yeah, maybe grass. And wood.”
“Grass and wood?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “Do you mean clover and oak?”
“Nope. I mean grass and wood. And, uh, maybe dirt.”
“Earth tones?” she coached.
“Uh-uh. Dirt,” he said, taking another sip. “Oh, yep. And sugar.”
“Well, Cam,” said Margaret, shaking her head in disapproval, “you’ve taken a four hundred dollar bottle of Merlot and reduced it to grass, wood, dirt, and sugar. Nice job.”