He kissed and sucked and licked until she was mindless, until she was arching up against him and moaning, and then he pulled her shirt up over her head and threw it to one side and started kissing her mouth again. Shivery with arousal, she kissed him back, loving the weight of his chest against her sensitized breasts, loving the roughness of his kiss, loving the possessive way he fondled her breasts before his hand slid down inside the sweatpants and between her legs, touching her where she most wanted to be touched.
She cried out, moving against his hand, burning, melting, absolutely on fire. Wanting more, needing more, she reached for his belt buckle, fumbled at it with fingers made clumsy by urgency, ran unsteady fingers over the rigid bulge in the front of his pants. He muttered something short and profane against her mouth and lifted himself away from her and sat up. Her eyes popped open and her fingers sank into the softness of the sleeping bag, but before she could ask him where the hell he thought he was going or what was up or anything like that, he hooked his fingers in her waistband and yanked her pants down her legs, pausing only long enough to pull off her boots before stripping her nude.
She lay propped up on her elbows on the silky gray sleeping bag, awash in golden lamplight, her tawny hair streaming down her back, her knees bent, her legs slightly raised. She felt just a little shy under his hard gaze but also incredibly turned on. He looked at her with open lust, and she found that the idea that he was seeing her naked brought its own fiery thrill. He took in every inch of her, and it was almost like she could see herself through his eyes: tousled hair, flushed face, lips swollen by his kisses; creamy round breasts with darkened, erect nipples; slim waist, flat stomach, gently curved hips; long, toned, tanned legs with a strip of fair pubic hair between.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice was hoarse. His eyes glittered at her like black diamonds.
Too turned on to answer, she murmured something wordless by way of a reply and watched him unashamedly. He’d shucked his boots and unfastened his belt buckle while he was looking at her, and the tiny sound his zipper made as he lowered it made her quake.
Then he was shedding his pants, and she saw that he was, indeed, as huge and hard as he’d felt.
Her heart pounded as if she’d been running for miles.
“Oh, my,” she breathed, and as he saw what she was looking at, a corner of his mouth ticked up in the briefest of smiles.
He leaned toward her, kissed her with a naked hunger that made her go up in flames, and bore her back down into their makeshift bed, his hands all over her, his big body pressing her down. When he had her wild for him, when she was moving beneath him and moaning and so hot, so ready, that she thought if he didn’t come into her right that very minute she would lose her mind, his mouth left hers and his body shifted. Opening her eyes, she murmured, “Cal,” and clutched at him in protest.
That’s when he kissed his way down her body to the cleft between her legs, and pressed his mouth to her and licked her and did other thrilling, secret things.
Until her body clenched hard. And she came, and came, and came.
She was still shaking, still shuddering, still gasping for breath, when he levered his big body on top of her and pushed himself inside her so fiercely that she cried out. He was hard and hot and filled her to capacity and then some. He took her with a single-minded ferocity that had her quaking and burning and wanting again, and she did the only thing she could do: wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and held on. It was the most erotic experience of her life, and the end, when it came, was so hot and intense that she thought she would die right there and then from the sheer explosive pleasure of it.
She bucked, and clung, and cried out his name. “Cal! Cal, Cal, Cal!”
He drove into her one final time, groaning as he found his own release. Then he held himself shuddering inside her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
She’d made him tremble. He was a grown-ass man, a highly trained veteran of battle campaigns, firefights, clandestine forays, and any number of life-and-death situations, to say nothing of countless rolls in the sack, and the last time he remembered trembling was when he’d lost his virginity at fifteen.
Dr. Gina Sullivan, ornithologist, college professor, uptight, angst-ridden twenty-eight-year-old widow, was by no means his type, which tended toward busty platinum blondes who liked to have a raucous good time in bed and out. She was beautiful, all right, but not in the eye-popping, head-turning way of his usual. Hers was a quieter, more refined type of beauty that Cal saw now had been sneaking up on him until finally it hit him over the head, which had happened with all the force of a baseball bat swinging for a line drive the moment he saw her naked. Then he’d realized: hers was a face and body to die for.
He’d wanted to fuck her senseless.
Instead he’d taken his time, reined himself in, been mindful of her hang-ups and history and almost certain relative lack of sexual experience, and set himself to making it good for her, first and foremost.