he murmured, tossing her top to the couch, leaving her clad in only a thin tank top and a black, scalloped lace bra. Being a chef who worked long hours, most of the time her body only knew chef coats, T-shirts and black pants. As a concession to the woman who loved fashion, she had an addiction for pretty underwear. And the desire flaring in those light eyes telegraphed his approval.
“Nothing,” she replied, skimming her fingers over his shoulders and avoiding his gaze. “Nowhere.”
He didn’t call her on her bullshit; instead he slowly slid a hand up her side, rucking the tank top so the fire-warmed air brushed her exposed skin. She held her breath, her chest lifting and falling on her deep, labored breaths. Oh, God. It’d been so long. And she ached so much. Touch me. The words screamed in her head like a pissed-off banshee. I need. I need. I need.
The chant exploded in her head like pop rockets, quick, loud and bright.
His lips closed over her nipple. And she cried out. Jerked in his hold. Melted against him.
“Shh,” he soothed, sweeping his lips over the tip through her thin top and bra.
They proved to be an insubstantial barrier to his tongue, his teeth, his passion. He drew on her, alternating with a quick lash and a lush lick. Big, capable hands cupped her, molded her, lifted her to his lips and plucked at the peak that hadn’t received his mouth yet.
She sank onto his lap, her sex grinding against the steely length of his cock. With a ragged groan, she tipped her head back on her shoulders, clinging to his head and working his erection. Lust had a way of burning away good sense, shame and inhibition. And as she rode him, circling her hips, bucking against him, racing toward an ending that she would gladly fly into, she shed all of them.
With an impatient growl, Ross tugged down the top of her tank and her bra cup. That needy sound roughened as he bared her to his gaze and his mouth. He switched to her neglected breast, drawing it deep to grant it the same erotic attention, and she trembled, unable to tear her enraptured gaze from the sight of him loving her body. His hand slipped down her belly, not stopping at the waistband of her black leggings, but sliding underneath. Drifting lower... Until he stroked a caress over wet, aching flesh.
“Ross,” she breathed, stiffening as pleasure arced through her, momentarily stunning her. His attention on her breasts—God, yes, it was good. But this? This light but firm strumming of the taut nerves cresting her sex? The delicious stroke between her swollen folds? This defied “good” and rammed straight into “exquisite.”
“I need it,” she pleaded, hips jerking and rolling in an uncontrolled rhythm. “I need it so badly. Please.”
Hunger reduced pride to smoldering cinders. Desperation razed caution to the ground. She wanted this man with a desire that should’ve scared her. Maybe later, when lust didn’t cloud her mind, it would. But not at this moment, with those elegant fingers swirling a diabolical caress around that sensitive nub. Not when she hovered on the verge of coming apart with him for the first time in three long years.
He hushed her, freeing her breast with a soft pop then reclaiming her mouth again. The indulgent thrust of his tongue, the luxurious tangle reflected his touch down below. He glided through her sex, fingers flirting with her entrance before slowly, deliberately pumping into her.
She cried into his mouth, and he greedily took it. On a rumble of pleasure, of approval, he withdrew, then stroked back into her, burying one then two fingers inside her grasping core. Pleasure spun, a crazy, blinding storm that built and built, threatening to sweep her away and never return her to who she’d been before she made the impulsive decision to start this.
Her fingers scrabbled at his shoulders, clutching at his head, as she held on for the inevitable climax. Yet, even as her hips bucked and ground against his hand, her body demanding more, she fought that ending. She feared never feeling this again, never having this again.
Pushing the thought aside, she buried her face in his throat and chanted soundless words against his skin. But maybe he heard them, because he thrust harder. Curled his fingertips against that high, soft-and-hard place so deep inside her.
And she surrendered.
To the pleasure. To the power. To the lust.
She shattered, and as his