Lifting her hand, he brushed one more searing kiss across it while she watched helplessly.
He got on the big bike, slinging his helmet on, then gave her a nod and a smile before the engine roared to life and he pulled away. She had a small moment of satisfaction when he glanced over his shoulder to take one last look at her.
When he’d disappeared around the corner she shook herself, fumbled for her keys and got into her car. Part of her wanted to call Kitty, but she needed even more to get home. The siren call of her vibrator collection was impossible to resist. There was no way she could have a sensible conversation until she’d worked some of this tension out of her system. Even if it took all damn night.
She blasted music to get herself home, to keep her mind off her evening with Duff. Not that it did much good. The longer she had to wait to get home and find some relief for her aching, needy body, the worse the need became. Lust was like a flame, licking at her, scalding her, setting her body on fire. By the time she parked in the driveway next to her small cottage, she couldn’t wait. She hadn’t turned her porch light on, and the night was dark. The main house was on the other side of her cottage, and apparently her neighbors either weren’t home or hadn’t turned on any outside lights. But as she undid the button on her jeans and slid the zipper down, letting her fingers brush the top of her bare mound, she felt a small thrill at the possibility that someone could catch her.
Biting her lip as she shimmied out of her jeans, she pushed them down past her knees so she could open her shaking thighs. She slid her fingers beneath the lace thong she wore, tracing her swollen lips with teasing fingers while pleasure shivered through her system.
Duff.
In her mind’s eye she saw him, his impossibly broad shoulders, the gleam in his eye as he moved toward her. The heat of his touch as he slid his hands up under her shirt, finding her braless. Finding her hardening nipples and smoothing his palms over them, then squeezing until it hurt just a little.
“Oh, yes.”
Her hips arched, but she wouldn’t allow her searching fingers to touch her clitoris. Not yet.
Closing her eyes, she imagined him slipping his shirt over his head, revealing a tight six-pack and a chest carved from granite. And the beautiful tattoos she’d seen on him when he’d worn a white wifebeater at The Bastille, marking his skin in a way that made her wet simply thinking about the hurting little needle working the ink into his skin.
She gasped, arched, let her fingers press on either side of her needy clit.
Not yet.
“Not yet,” he would tell her. “Not until I say you can.”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered into the dark, her body trembling, on the edge already. If only he would let her come.
? ? ?
DUFF PARKED THE bike in front of Jamie’s place, swung his leg over and ripped the helmet off his head as he moved toward the front door. He fumbled with his key, found the lock, opened the door and slipped through, slamming it behind him. Standing at the bottom of the old wood stairwell, he leaned a hand against one wall, dropping his head, trying to get it to clear. But all he could see was her. Lust burned through him, leaving rage in its place. The raging need to have her. Kneeling at his feet. Sucking his cock with that gorgeous, plush mouth.
His dick pulsed, swelled, pressing against his zipper.
“Fuck . . .”
Reaching down, he dropped his helmet on the floor, unzipped his jeans, pulled his rock-hard erection out and closed a fist over the throbbing head.
He could see it—Layla’s dark hair shining in the dim light from the streetlamps through the dormer window above the door as she sank to her knees right here.
He’d tear her top off, freeing her succulent breasts—oh, yes, he knew they’d be succulent, that lovely skin, that full swell of flesh.
He ran his hand down the length of his hard shaft, moaning quietly.
“Take it now,” he whispered in the darkness of the stairwell, with no one to hear him but the old building. Or maybe the neighbors who lived downstairs, but he didn’t care. Layla was too much in his head. In his blood. In his hard, aching cock. No—not in it. Surrounding his swollen flesh with her mouth.
“Suck it hard,” he ordered, making a ring of his fingers and teasing the head of his dick.
He paused, sucking his fingers into his mouth, wetting them, then going back to work on his cock.
“Suck me hard, lovely. Take as much of it as you can. Ah, yeah.”
He straightened up, falling back against the wall and using it to support his shaking legs as he began to stroke.
“That’s a girl. Harder now. Deeper. Suck me . . . Yeah . . .”
His hips arched into his fisted hand, pleasure roaring through him, making him so damn hard it hurt. He would ravage the girl if he had her there with him. And why didn’t he? He was a man who took what he wanted—and he wanted Layla. So badly it was painful, if his poor throbbing dick was any testament.
Layla.
He looked down at his stroking hand and imagined it was her hand grasping the base of his cock, her tongue teasing the head, then sliding down on him as she swallowed him.
“Fuck, yeah.”
His balls went tight, sensation causing goose bumps to run up his spine. He gritted his teeth, trying to hold back.
? ? ?
LAYLA’S BREATH CAME out on a long sigh as she slid two fingers into her wet sex.
Duff . . .
“Fuck me, Duff,” she murmured, imagining his naked body held over hers, how he would wrap one arm around her waist and hold her down, helpless while he impaled her.
“Oh!”
She thrust her fingers in hard, her sex clenching around them. Wishing it were him, she began a hard, pounding motion. With her other hand she touched the tip of her clit, and had to swallow a scream as her climax tore through her, a blaze of pleasure that rippled through her entire body, wave after wave. And all the time with his face behind her closed eyes.
“Yes, Duff. Yes, Sir.”
? ? ?