Without warning, Harper reached up and gave a final tug of the bow. He could hear the slide of the fabric as the bow became toe ribbons. And the ribbons became insignificant as inch by incredible inch the fabric fell to the sides, exposing more and more of that silky strip of skin beneath. Until finally, finally, she let go and the top fell to the floor in one swoop, leaving her in nothing but those fuzzy slippers and silk bottoms, and confirming that (a) this was going to happen, right here, right now, and (b) she wasn’t wearing a bra under that silk, which led him to (c) that if he thought Harper in a lacy bra was smoking, he was about to go up in some serious flames, because Harper in nothing was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen, which finally brought him to (d) that unless she was sporting the tiniest of G-strings under those shorts, then—
Holding her gaze, he traced a fingertip down the curve of her neck, across her flat stomach, and all the way to her waist, loving how her muscles quivered in his wake. Then with purpose he slid both hands around until they were cupping her amazing ass and, man, two perfect handfuls.
“Are we talking a matching set, or do you have Honeysuckle under there?” he asked.
“Seeing my panties is strictly a third-date event,” she said with a sinful smile. “Being that this is our first, I didn’t wear any.”
“Thank Christ for first dates,” he said, his body tightening at the information. With a growl he lifted her up. “Wrap your legs around me, sunshine. This exploration is about to get real.”
She did as she was told and he had every intention of walking them into the room, but she started kissing him and playing with his belt, and before he knew it, his pants were around his hips and she was pressed against the wall.
“Here?” he asked against her lips.
He thought she mumbled something about a cat but it was hard to hear what she was saying with her tongue down his throat. Then her legs tightened around him and so did her hand and—sweet baby Jesus—his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his knees started to buckle.
She was an artist all right. Fucking Picasso, with the way she used sure, smooth strokes and deliberate brushes to drive him right up to the edge, again and again, until he was certain he’d go all the way over if he didn’t do something quick.
Using the wall for leverage, he slid one hand down her ass and beneath, pulling the perfectly-too-short shorts to the side and doing some creative reaching to give a stroke of his own. It wasn’t Picasso, because, hell, he was limited holding her with one hand, but it was enough to have her gasping. The second stroke had her moaning his name, and the third? He added a little brush combo at the end that had her whole body tensing. So he did it again, loving how she grabbed his wrist and held him there, as if afraid he’d stop before she got her cookies.
Not his style.
“Tell me what you want, Harper. More of this?” Stroke. Brush.
Her head fell back against the wall, thrusting her breasts up and her hips forward, increasing the friction—and the heat. Always good with orders, he started pumping and stroking and the way she closed around his fingers when he sank even deeper was enough to drive a man insane.
“Yes, more of that,” she moaned.
“There you go again, making this too easy. You haven’t heard the other options. Like this,” he said, giving her a kiss that was meant to rock her world, and by the way she clung to him, he figured he’d rocked it hard.
“Or maybe some of this?” Tilting his head down, he captured her nipple in his mouth, which was right there begging for attention. He gave a sharp bite, then soothed it with his tongue. “What will it be, sunshine?”
“All,” she said on a scream.
Adam did just that. He had her groaning in one kiss, shuddering with a well-placed nibble to her swollen breasts, and exploding when he applied the right kind of stroke in the right kind of spot. Her body clamped around his hand as her orgasm took her higher and higher.
She sighed and one leg slid to the floor and that was when she looked up at him through desire-hazed eyes and said, “I want it all.”
And with her hair messy from his fingers, her lips bruised from his kisses, and her voice hoarse from crying out his name, Adam decided he wanted it all too.
Things got a little frantic, him working the bow, her searching for the condom that was—bingo—in his back pocket. A few seconds and one hell of a rubdown later, he was wrapped, she was ready, and they met in the middle with a single thrust.
She gasped. He nearly cried. Then neither of them moved, neither one of them breathed. They stood there, her right leg on the floor, her left locked around his back, and he was finally where he wanted to be.
After he could breathe without the fear of his lungs collapsing from pleasure, he shifted his hips ever so slowly, and she landed a move that was so unexpected it was like a wrecking ball right through his chest.
She tightened her arms around his neck, then kissed his nose, his chin, and finally his lips as she moved in sync with him.
Sweet, God so fucking sweet it hurt, then she pulled him in for what had to be the most erotic and all-encompassing embrace he’d ever been given and he knew he was in trouble. There they were, half naked, fucking up against the wall, his pants around his ankles, his shirt bunched up around his waist, and Harper somehow made this moment special. Made him feel special.
And he liked it. More than he should.
“You feel so good,” he said, but what he really meant was that around her he felt good. Terrified, confused, scared shitless, but good.
As if this were right.