It lit her up.
It burned her down.
It made her a pliant supplicant in his arms. Ready to be ravished, to be taken, to be made into whatever he wished as long as he would keep touching her, keep kissing her, keep giving her pleasure with his mouth and tongue and body.
“Ozzie,” she whispered again, her nails digging into his muscled shoulders when he cupped her bottom and pulled her to the very edge of the counter so he could more fully align their bodies.
His hard shaft pressed into the seam of her jeans. Answering wetness slicked her panties. She thought maybe he felt it, felt the pulse of sultry heat against his cock, because he took her mouth in a kiss that was a little crude and totally, completely, bone-meltingly delicious.
The slow, deliberate bump and grind of his hips mimicked the thrust and parry of his tongue. Both created a friction that drove Samantha insane, pushed her up, coiled the ache inside. Ozzie even tasted alpha. Bold. Barbarous. Completely untamed.
“I want to touch you,” he said between soul-drugging kisses. “I want to put my hands on every inch of you.”
There was no asking for permission. No waiting for permission. The next instant, his hands were once again beneath the hem of her sweatshirt.
She moaned at the feel of his rough palms skating over her tender flesh. Without hesitation, he slid his fingers up her sides, over her rib cage, stopping when his thumbs bumped the lace covering the undersides of her breasts.
“If you want me to stop, tell me now,” he rumbled against her throat, sounding like the lion she’d imagined earlier. Welcome to the jungle, baby. Indeed.
But stop? Was he crazy?
She could have gone with the obvious… Don’t stop; never stop. Or the comical… Bang me like a drum, big boy. But all she could manage was “Please.” She pulled him closer, rubbing herself against his throbbing hardness and closing her eyes as the friction jangled the bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. “Please,” she begged again.
And he didn’t disappoint. He cupped her breasts in his large hands, lifting them, plumping them. Her nipples had been saluting him like little soldiers all night long, and now they received their reward for good behavior when his thumbs passed over them. The resultant pleasure bordered on pain, because the tips had been so hard for so long. But she wanted more.
It was so good.
The best.
She wondered why that should be. Was he better at it than her previous lovers? Or was it something else? Was it because she’d never felt about any other man the way she felt about him? Like he was Prince Charming riding in on his white stallion. Like he was Romeo climbing onto her balcony. Like he was Superman, able to leap buildings in a single bound. Like he was…Ozzie. Just everything a man was supposed to be and then some. Was it so good with him because it wasn’t just her hormones involved but also something that started with an H and rhymed with dart?
The thought terrified her. Mostly because she had no idea if Ozzie felt the same. In fact, she figured chances were good he did not. The man was a playboy, a lothario, a wolf in…wolf’s clothing.
Lion or wolf, Sammie? Pick one and stick with it.
Problem was, she couldn’t find one that fit perfectly. He had all the cunning and stealth of a wolf, all the majesty and big-boned grace of a lion. He was just animalistic. Just unrepentantly carnal. Just…Ozzie.
Pushing all thoughts but those of pleasure from her mind, she grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and yanked it over his head. His hands had to stop doing those wonderful things to her breasts. But she was rewarded for her sacrifice when he stood in front of her naked from the waist up.
Sweet, merciful fuck!
She thought she’d been drowning in desire before. But she’d only been swimming in it. Now she was drowning. Unable to breathe. Unable to move. Unable to do anything but look at inch upon inch of tough, tanned flesh.
She ran her eyes over every light-brown whorl of hair that curled between his bulging pectoral muscles. Saw the clutch of violets tattooed over his heart twitch when his chest flexed. And took a cursory glance at the Star Trek Starfleet insignia inked on his right bicep.
On his left side was a scar. A jagged wound still angry and puckered, even though it was obvious from the faded white color that the injury was old. She wondered if it was from the same motorcycle wreck that had injured his leg. And speaking of injuries, she couldn’t help but notice the two little red circles like mosquito bites on his chest, courtesy of her Taser.
She winced, prepared to apologize yet again, but every thought in her head dripped out of her ears when she saw the head of his cock protruding past the waistband of his loose shorts. It was bulbous and red, thick and shiny. And sonofa—! It would have taken a crowbar to pry her eyes away from the drop of pre-ejaculate that formed at his tip.
Before she made the conscious decision to move, she reached for him.
*
Ozzie’s dick jumped when he saw Samantha go to grab him. But he knew he’d never last if she touched him. He was too hard. It’d been too long. He wanted her too much.
“Don’t,” he gritted between his teeth, catching her delicate wrist before her fingers could reach their intended target. The force of his grip and the vehemence of the command startled her. She searched his face with eyes that had gone dark and half-lidded. The sweetest, sexiest bedroom eyes he’d ever seen.
“Why?” she whispered.
“It’s been too long,” he admitted without shame. He’d never been a man to mince words, especially when it came to sex. What would be the point? The only way you get what you want is to ask for it, straight out. And when it came to the bedroom, he always got what he wanted. When it came to the bedroom, he dropped the charm, dropped the jokes, and took.
And he gave too. Oh, how he loved giving. Loved learning a woman’s body. Loved hearing the noises she made when ecstasy overtook her.
And Samantha… Samantha was his greatest challenge, greatest triumph yet.
“Too long since what?” She was still watching him.
“Since I had sex. If you touch me now, I won’t last. And I want it to last. I want it to go on forever.”
“Wh—”
Before she could ask whatever she was poised to ask, he whipped her sweatshirt over her head and tossed the garment onto the island beside them.
“Turnabout is fair play,” he told her when she blinked in surprise. Her dark hair cascaded around her slim shoulders. Her pale skin was pink with a blush of desire. But the lacy cups of her bra—this one, bright red—were what held his attention. Because the bra was peekaboo lace. And her nipples showed through the material, taunting him with their hardened peaks, beckoning him with their sweet, rosy color.