Honey Pie (Cupcake Club) - By Donna Kauffman Page 0,69
was hard, muscular, warm, the heavy air making his T-shirt a bit damp, his skin a bit slick.
She moaned as he slid his tongue into her mouth, moved his body against hers . . . and everything blissfully slipped away except the blinding need to feel more, taste more, have more.
He left her mouth, and she made a brief sound of protest. The whimper turned into a groan of pleasure as his lips found the soft spot under her jaw, then traveled along the side of her neck. She moaned and let her head shift to the side to allow him greater access, reveling in the experience of discovery, of learning what it felt like to be utterly seduced . . . and the thrill of how her body responded to it. Learning where her sensitive spots were, how easily he could elicit a gasp, a moan, when he discovered and exploited them . . . much to her delight.
She had the fleeting thought that pinned against the door, all but helpless, she should have felt trapped . . . panicked, at the very least, at not having any control over how her space was being invaded. Instead, she realized she felt protected, safe. She trusted Dylan. He knew what could happen and wanted her anyway . . . and at the same time, he wasn’t being cavalier or selfish about it. There was no doubt she wanted this as much as he . . . and she could certainly say no if she didn’t want this to happen, which meant he trusted her, too. So, there was sort of an inner sense of calm, knowing that, no matter what happened, even if the curse was triggered again, he’d stand by her.
It was tantalizing, even a little thrilling, despite the fear, to know he’d probably keep pushing her to reach for what she wanted. He wouldn’t let her run and hide.
He pressed her wrists to the wall, then slowly drew his hands along her arms to her shoulders, and she arched against him, all of her thoughts riveted on one thing, wanting his hands to keep moving, to find more of those spots that drove her wild. Two in particular would kill to have his fingertips on them.
“Sugar, you have no idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you,” he murmured, his lips pressed to the base of the throat.
“I’m not . . . stopping you,” she managed between short breaths. Having an episode had never been so far from her thoughts. Trying to keep her knees from going completely to Jell-O while biting her lip to keep from begging him to cup her breasts, to please, dear God, play with her nipples . . . was taking up every bit of her concentration.
“If I start, no tellin’ where it’ll stop,” he said. “And a dusty, dank old building isn’t what I had in mind.”
She wanted to scream, she ached so bad. “You’ve . . . had this in mind?” She was trying to stay focused on the words and not the feel of his wide palms, bracketing her waist.
He lifted his head at that and grinned. “It might have occurred to me once or twice,” he said, echoing his words from earlier. “Okay, maybe a few times.” He lifted his hands from her waist and carefully, without so much as brushing against her almost painfully erect nipples, he plucked open one button of her blouse. “Not to say I couldn’t be persuaded . . .” He plucked open another one, and that devilish twinkle was back in his eyes again.
Good Lord, she thought, I’ve won the sexual lottery. She sent up every prayer of thanks she knew and a few she improvised right on the spot. She smiled, too, despite being shaky with need. “Well, my vote would be—”
“Yoo-hoo!” A wavery, high pitched voice cut through the dank humidity and the thick fog of lust like a pickax into a block of ice. “I saw your truck out front, I hope you don’t—oh my!”
Honey instinctively started to jerk away, but Dylan’s hands went right back to her waist, pinning her in place. “Blouse,” he whispered, then let her go and turned to face their visitor, mercifully blocking Honey from view.
“Well, hey there,” he said, all relaxed Southern drawl as if they hadn’t been one breath away from mating like wild animals. “Can I help you with somethin’ there, Miss Alva?”