“You’re kind a of a squeaker too.” He scooted me higher on his body, nibbling as he went. As his lips closed around my nipple, I did indeed squeak a bit. “See?”
“That was a squeal, not a squeak,” I protested, beginning to pant as he surrounded me with his teeth. I squeaked and the bed creaked and the farmer laughed into my breast.
“I knew the minute you screamed at that poor bumblebee that you were going to be mouthy.”
I sat up in pseudo-indignation, crossing my arms over my naked chest. “For the record, that bee and I were going to have trouble the minute I set foot in the forest. They always see me coming.”
“I’d like to see you coming,” he murmured, running his hands up and down my thighs, encouraging me to sit astride him. “I still can’t believe how tense you get when I mention bees. Are you even aware how tight your thighs are right now on my hips? You’re like a nutcracker.”
“You really want to talk about bees right now?” I replied, forcing myself to relax.
“Nope.” He rolled me over once more and slid down my body. “But I’ll take some of that honey.”
“Honey? Oh—”
I gave myself over to the feel of his lips trailing down my tummy, pausing to lick lightly just below my belly button. His mouth, planting little kisses from one hip across to the other, his hands sliding up, cupping my breasts, teasing the peaks. I gasped, my back arching again under his touch. He moved farther south, nuzzling at the very top of my thigh. I had been fantasizing for weeks what that beard might feel like between my legs.
He rested his chin about three inches above where I was dying for him to go. I bumped my hips. He pressed a kiss about two inches above where I was dying for him to go. I moaned, closing my eyes, ready to burst out of my skin at the slightest touch. I was buzzing, crackles of tension beginning to run wild across my body. And yet . . .
“Do you remember that night in your kitchen?” he asked, and my eyes flew open. Raising up on my elbows, I peered down at him. He once again rested his chin on me, looking perfectly natural and not at all concerned to find himself at the juncture of Please Oh Please and For the Love of God.
“Kitchen?” I said, trying to keep from squeaking again. I was becoming addicted to his touch, and right now, being so very close to it and being denied? It was maddening.
It was incredible.
But mostly, it was maddening.
“The night you made me dinner, and you sat on my lap and turned the same color as the beets I brought you? Something about liking my beard?” He dipped his chin, running the length of it up and down my yesrightexactlythere. “Something about wanting to try something, I think. Before I shaved it off?”
“Really? Hmm, I don’t remember.” I nonchalantly slid my ankles down a little farther, bending my knees slightly, and oops. I bumped him with my yesrightexactlytheredammit. “Oops.”
His grin widened at my oops. My knees widened at his grin. There really was only one way this was going to end.
“See now, I’m amazed you can’t remember. Whatever made you blush that night, you sure seemed to be thinking about something fairly specific.” He dipped down, running the tip of his nose across my skin, over a valley and a couple of dells. The farmer was very much in the dell. I was panting. I very deliberately slipped my heels across his shoulders, maintaining an air not so much of nonchalance but of . . . whatever was the opposite of nonchalance. My heels and I were the epitome of chalance. “Sure, you can’t remember,” he breathed, his lips mere centimeters from the center of the entire world.
“I might . . . remember . . . something . . .” I said, feeling a rush of heat spreading through me. The only part of him touching me was his breath, and I was feeling more and more sure I could get off on air alone, providing it was Air Leo.