Holy hellfire. He’d thought about her and touched himself? The erotic picture in her head made the ache between her legs almost unbearable. She squeezed her thighs together, hoping to dull the delightful misery.
He grunted as if he knew what she was doing. And maybe he did. Because he lifted his hands and forced her legs apart.
“Ozzie.” His name was a plea in and of itself. But she didn’t think it hurt to add, “Please, touch me. I ache, and—Oh Lord, yesssss.”
He didn’t hesitate to slide one thick finger inside her. Because she was so hot, so ready, her body offered little resistance. Instead, it welcomed his intrusion with a hot rush of wetness.
He made a noise. It was a breathy unhhh of sound. As if he couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he leaned forward and put his mouth on her.
Now, Samantha had never been a huge fan of cunnilingus. The men she had dated, while wildly exuberant, had also been pitifully unskilled. They either lapped at her like a cat with spilled milk or else sucked so hard, she thought her clit might pop right off. But Ozzie…
Oh, he did neither of those things. In fact, she couldn’t say for sure what he did, but whatever it was, it was…wonderful. With his lips and his teeth and his tongue—not to mention the finger inside her—he created a head-spinning, toe-curling hedonistic profusion of sensation. And before she knew it, he had built her orgasm to dizzying heights. Pleasure was a vibrant, pulsing thing inside her. Muscles she hadn’t realized she possessed spasmed and quivered.
“Ozzie!” She speared her fingers into his hair. To push him away? To pull him closer? She couldn’t tell. It was so good. Too good. She couldn’t take it anymore and—
The sound that keened from the back of her throat was one she’d never heard before. And forevermore, she would recognize it as the noise of pure, transcendent physical rapture. Her body exploded. Pleasure pulsed. Stars burst behind her squeezed tight eyelids, coalesced, and burst again.
It was ecstasy. It was agony. And she never wanted it to end.
Chapter 15
Beautiful.
That was the only word to describe Samantha in the throes of release. The smell of her. The taste of her. The sight of her, head thrown back, hips pressed forward, body throbbing in delight.
So beautiful, in fact, that she made Ozzie hurt. Shame formed a lump in his throat. He’d meant to give her the kind of pleasure she would never forget. The kind that would make any man who came after him pale by comparison.
And he had. He was certain that he had. There was no way she could fake her quivering breasts and thighs, her flushed skin, and the fluttering squeeze of her internal muscles around his pumping finger.
But it felt wrong.
He felt wrong.
Because he hadn’t done it with generosity, because there was nothing more wonderful than bringing a woman to the brink of ecstasy and then standing back and watching her fling herself over the edge. He’d done it out of malice, out of hurt and anger. Her pleasure had been her punishment.
But it had backfired.
He had tried to use sex as a weapon, but the only one wounded by the experience was him.
Well, no more, he thought. No more wallowing. No more self-pity.
Samantha had done him the honor of allowing him to love her, to make love to her, and even if it only lasted a night or two nights or ten nights, he swore to himself he would make the most of every second. Because he did love her. It was clear to him now. Loved her the way Boss loved Becky, Snake loved Michelle, the way all the BKI men loved their women, with a fierce, all-encompassing devotion. And even if she didn’t feel the same way about him, that didn’t mean he couldn’t cherish the here and now.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her thigh when the last vestiges of orgasm had shuddered through her. Her taste was sweet on his tongue, making him think of the line from Warrant’s song, “Cherry Pie.”
Tastes so good, make a grown man cry. He got it. He totally got it.
She blew out a ragged breath and dipped her chin to look at him there on his knees in front of her. Her gaze was slumberous, gratified, and hot. She wanted more. More of him. More of them.
His dick was already rock hard. But the heat in her eyes made it harder still. She placed her hands on his shoulders and shoved. His position made his balance precarious. Before he knew it, he was flat on his back on the floor. And Samantha? Well, she was on top of him, straddling him.
“Where in God’s name did you learn to do that?” she asked breathlessly, her voice throaty and hoarse. “Never mind. I don’t want to know, just…bravo, my friend. Brav-fucking-o.”
A wide smile pulled at Ozzie’s lips. Only Samantha. Funny, flirty, wildly entertaining Samantha could make him want to laugh and fuck at the same time.
“And now,” she said, a wicked gleam making her brown eyes black, “it’s my turn.”
He didn’t need to ask what she was talking about. She made it clear when she whipped his T-shirt over his head. She paused to place a soft, warm kiss on each of the red spots left behind by her Taser and then scooted down his legs to tackle the button on his fly.
She was glorious in her nudity. Unabashedly determined to get him in the same state. He was left with a dilemma. Did he touch all those inches of smooth, pale flesh. Or did he tuck his arms behind his head and enjoy the show?
She made the decision for him when she scooted out of his reach. With a determined yank, she pulled his jeans to his knees, revealing the heft of his cock as it bounced against his lower belly and the awful, raised red flesh of his wound.
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the extent of his injury. His jaw clenched with the effort not to reach down and cover the hideous sight. The bomb had torn away chunks of flesh and muscle, leaving horrendous divots behind. Gouges from the shrapnel that had ripped into him had formed huge, jagged scars. The surgeons had done the best they could. But they had worried more about saving the functionality of his leg and less about aesthetics.
“You got this in a motorcycle crash?” she murmured, and he almost told her the truth then and there. Then she said, “Oh, Ozzie,” and surprised him when, instead of being repulsed, she leaned down and carefully, ever so gently pressed her lips to the worst of his scars. Over and over again. Beauty kissing the beast.
“It’s ugly.” He ground his teeth. “You don’t have to—”
“Hush,” she grumbled at him, still moving her soft lips over his mutilated flesh. “Scars aren’t ugly. They’re proof of a life lived. I just wish I could take away your hurt.”
His heart Hulked out, growing so huge, he was surprised it didn’t burst through his rib cage.
Sweet…
It wasn’t a word he usually ascribed to Samantha, but it fit all the same. When you got right down to it, she was so damned sweet.