Those tattoos—the ones I’d been staring at for weeks at the farmers’ market, the ones that peeked out from under his T-shirts and trailed down his arms—were just the tip of the iceberg. Because underneath it all, where it was just Oscar and skin, was a world of paint. Bright, angry colors bloomed across his chest, each pectoral its own canvas for the art that had been exquisitely inked onto his skin. Bold lines, panels of images and symbols and here and there a word. A moon. The stars. An enormous oak tree stretched across his abdomen and curled upward over his heart, the branches curving in, surrounding a bloodred sun.
Beautiful. But before I could admire him properly, he picked me up, wrapped my legs around his waist, and pressed me up against the stall once more. Holding my weight entirely in one hand, he slipped the other down in between us again and began to circle my clit, low and slow and maddeningly perfect. I slapped at the slats, he circled faster. I cried out, he dipped lower. One finger, then two, slid inside me, driving me, my hips beginning to thrust, riding his hand as his thumb pressed down . . .
“Oh. Yes,” I said, sparks of light beginning to crackle at the edge of my vision, which was focused entirely on this man, this man who was groaning while he watched me begin to come undone, thrashing, undulating, so very close.
“There she is,” he murmured, and I came. Came hard and fast, pushing him away and pulling him closer at the same time.
When I opened my eyes, he was watching me, head cocked slightly to the side, a slow, sexy grin creeping across his face.
More. I needed more.
“My jeans,” I managed to say.
“Your jeans?”
“Condom. Back pocket.”
“Yeah?”
“Immediately.”
He untangled my legs and set me gently on my feet, and was in my jeans and back again with the condom before I could say hey, this hay is slippery.
He wrapped his arms around me again, pulling me fully against him, and I relished barely coming up to his collarbone. He was so tall, so very tall, that I felt dainty and small and entirely surrounded by this man. Plus, I was eye level to the most beautiful collarbone ever imagined. I kissed that collarbone, planting kisses all along the swirls of ink there, while he held me tight, both hands firmly on my bottom, pressing me against him.
“Aren’t you glad I came to your scrimmage thingie today?” I asked, sneaking one hand down and finding his zipper.
“Any other time I’d tell you why it’s not a thingie, but yes,” he replied, eyes widening when I reached inside. “Not really going to argue with you right now.”
“What do you want to be doing with me right now?” I purred, using my other hand to push down the edges of his jeans, watching as his abdomen flexed and that wonderful V appeared, delineating his hips, and sweet Christ, this man was a work of art.
“I want you on top of me,” he said, kneeling once more and pulling me along with him, tearing at the condom wrapper with his teeth and coaxing me to straddle his legs. He pulled himself forward from his jeans and gave one long stroke, rubbing the head with this thumb, the same thumb that had just sent me over the moon and back again, and I rolled my hips reflexively. “I want you all over me.”
Rolling the condom on, he grasped me once more, positioning me over his body, holding himself at the base with one lucky hand while he looked up at me through heavy lids. “What’s your last name?”
“Hmm?” I murmured, lost at the sight of him in his own hand.
“Your last name?” he repeated, his eyes full of mischief.
“Grayson.” I was almost shaking with need as he ran his other hand up and over my bottom, poised just above him.
“Nice to officially meet you, Natalie Grayson,” he whispered, and thrust up inside me.
I threw back my head, my eyes clamped shut as I slid down, taking him into me, stretching to allow him to fit, because he was big, so big, proportionate to the rest of him. Crazy hot, crazy thick, and my back arched to allow me to push down more, harder, faster—I wanted it all from him.
His groan was as big as he was, powerful and echoing through the quiet barn, full of want and need, exactly the way I felt after lusting after this man for so long, wondering and wishing—and now here he was, perfectly inside.
But now . . . he was moving. Sliding, slipping, guiding my hips as he retreated, then thrust deep once more. I cried out, my muscles slick but swollen and so very tight against him.
Lifting my head once more I stared down into his eyes, the gray receding and the blue taking over, intense and focused, the same wonder that was no doubt in my eyes reflected in his.
This felt amazing. This felt incredible. This felt different.
I rocked, he rolled. I circled my hips, he circled his. In sync, wonderfully in sync we were, and I gasped when I could feel him, so strong underneath me, inside me, filling me up and making me shiver-shake.
His hands clutched at my hips, tight on my bottom, lifting and guiding me as I rode him hard, impossibly hard. But he was so very strong that I could let myself go, really let him feel all of me.
“Beautiful,” he groaned as I sank down once more, all the breath in my body leaving at once. “So fucking beautiful.”