She didn’t make it two steps before he was snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her against him.
Her back to his front.
His breath hot against her ear.
His hand soft against her breast as his thumb flicked back and forth across her suddenly hard nipple.
“If you’re serious about me quitting smoking, I can think of something a hell of a lot more enticing than a lollipop to keep my mouth busy.”
“Oh, really?” Her breath hitched in her throat before she could say any more, and for a second she feared she might actually strangle on her own desire. It had been three days since he’d gone down on her in that alley behind Antone’s, three days since he’d touched her in any but the most casual way.
She knew it was a good thing, knew the last thing she should be doing right now was sleeping with Wyatt Jennings. And yet she’d wanted him to touch her.
Had wanted him to press his mouth to her throat, her navel, her sex, just like he had that first night.
Had wanted to do the same—and more—to him.
Had wanted it all so badly that every look from him—no matter how innocuous—had lit her up like a concert stage and sent need thrumming through her.
She didn’t know what had made him reach for her today, and right now she didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was finally touching her again.
“Yeah, really.” His mouth skimmed slowly, slowly, slowly down her throat, lips soft and breath oh-so-warm, before fastening on the tender spot where her neck and shoulder met.
She gasped then, cried out, her body arching back into his, her ass pressing tight against his cock. He groaned in response, the sound sending little vibrations across her skin, which had her knees trembling and her body melting into his.
“Fuck,” he whispered, sliding his hand down to rest on her abdomen as his fingers pressed against her denim-covered sex. “I love the sounds you make.” He pressed harder and she cried out more loudly this time, her hand coming up to grab his arm for support even as she let herself rest more fully against him.
“That’s it,” he murmured as he continued to stroke her. His finger pressed right up against the seam of her jeans, while the seam pressed right up against her clit. And just that easily she was close, so very close.
A little desperate now, her body on fire, she rocked her hips up and used her own fingers to press his down more firmly against her sex. He gave in easily, his laugh dark and just a little bit dangerous as he followed her lead and gave her the friction she demanded. At the same time, though, he slid his free hand up her stomach to her breast. Found her nipple through the thin lace of her bra. Flicked his finger over it once, twice, before suddenly squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger hard enough to have light exploding behind her closed lids.
She bit her lip against the pleasure, tried her best to stifle her cries. But Wyatt was having none of it. Instead, he squeezed her nipple even harder as he blew a stream of warm, wet air against the sensitive skin behind her ear.
“Oh, God—” Her voice broke on a moan.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he told her, his finger moving harder and faster against her clit. “I’ve got you.”
It was too much.
His lean, hard body crowded up against hers.
His hot breath streaming against the nape of her neck.
His fingers simultaneously working over her nipple, her clit.
And him, right there, always right there. Tormenting her. Taking her over. Demanding so, so many wicked, wild, wonderful things of her. Too many.
She came with her hands clenching his arm. With her body jerking against his. With his name a broken cry on her lips. And then she was flying, flying, flying into a pleasure both brutal and beautiful in its intensity.
It went on and on and on and all she could do was hold tight to Wyatt and embrace the ecstasy. He was her port in the storm, the only solid thing she had while the world around her turned into a molten kaleidoscope of pleasure.
When it was over—when she could manage to do something more than whimper and hang on tight—she turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her cheek against his chest.
Beneath her ear, his heartbeat was as bold and steady as his drumming, and for long seconds she just stood there, listening. Catching her breath. Recovering.
When her breathing finally got back to normal, she pulled his T-shirt from his jeans, pressed one hand against his tautly muscled back while she slid her other hand around to his rock hard abs. “That makes three,” she murmured as her fingers traced along the top edges of his V-cut.
“Three of what?” he asked, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear.
“Three orgasms.” She started to unbutton his jeans. “You’ve gotten me off three times now. I think it’s past time I reciprocated.”