Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,52

pure, fresh want. I’d say it’s her most attractive feature, but it’s impossible to narrow it down. Every bit of her’s enchanting—her face, her body, her bright inner light.

I’m a goner.

Then she takes off her T-shirt. The blinds are up, but the only house with a view into this room is hers. “Watch out. Neighbor might see.”

“Yeah?” Her smile’s wicked. “She cute?”

“She’s magnificent.” My hand’s at her throat—slender and precious. I glide down, smoothing slowly over collar bones, to the deep cleavage made by her pink cotton bra. I love that the bra and the skirt and shirt never match. I love that it’s color over coordination. Joy over perfection. She doesn’t give a crap what she’s supposed to think or do or look like.

I ease the tips of my fingers under the top edge of the cup and glance up. Her smile’s gone, her head’s thrown back in open-mouthed pleasure. A jolt of pride hits me so hard I make a noise. Her eyes focus and meet mine.

Her lips curve.

And, fuck me, what am I doing?

I’m her first. She wants it, hell, I want it more than breathing. But being her first doesn’t guarantee that I’ll be her last. And that’s the part I can’t deal with.

22

She's lost control

Jerusha

Every time we touch, I lose a piece of myself to love. To Karl. It’s a strange thing, this confirmation that I’ve been right all these years: we’re not just intellectual creatures, we human beings. We’re physical. We’re animals.

And I know that it’s not the act that makes it good, it’s the man. The scrape of rough calluses, the rasp of uneven breathing, the almost painful press of denim to my bare inner thigh—all of these are ways he shows me how he feels.

It’s these details that make this so stunningly different from anything I’ve experienced. His fingers slide in, out, in again, never quite hitting my nipples. As if now that he’s touched me there, he’s in no hurry at all. That’s belied by the sprinter’s cadence of his breathing, the steady press and release of his hips into mine. The eager moans he lets out under his breath.

When he cups my entire breast, my hands shoot out to grasp whatever part of him they can, and pull. I need him close. In me. Filling me up, alleviating this ache.

“What is it, Dirty Girl?” He leans in, testing the weight of one breast, then the other. Back and forth, his eyes admiring his own work. Except I want to admire, too.

“Your shirt.” I grab at the cotton, eager to touch him without it. “Can you take it off?”

Hurriedly, he pulls it up and over. And to say that I like what I see would be like saying that I eat for subsistence. I mean, I do, obviously, but food is so much more than energy.

This man is so much more than pretty.

“My God,” I whisper, while my greedy hands stroke and knead. He speeds up after that—probably prodded by my reaction.

Efficient as can be, he reaches behind me and undoes my bra. My breasts drop out, loose and heavy and naked again. Although he’s seen me like this before, his response is gratifying. He goes quiet—not breathing—and when his gaze lands on mine, he’s shaking his head, eyes out of focus. “God, you really are beautiful.”

One hand molds my breast, reverent and careful, when I’m aching for reckless.

“Harder.”

His eyes, dark as ink now, linger on what his hands are doing. With a quick glance at my face and a glimmer of a smile, he shushes me, then looks back down, as if this were the most important job in the world. “Don’t rush this, Jerusha.” He pinches my nipple. “Let me enjoy you.”

My head bobs acquiescence, slow and drugged by his attentions. Another pinch pushes a happy, pained gasp from my lips.

When he bends his head and puts his mouth to my tender skin, I’m lost, adrift in a sea of ecstasy. A lick, a nip, another lick, and then he sucks me in, like he can’t get enough.

“Karl.” His name escapes me in a pleasure-induced chant. “Karl.”

He lets my nipple out with a pop and moves up. “Yeah,” he says, before kissing me, deep and hard. There’s ownership to this kiss—especially with the way he’s playing down there. Tugging and flicking, caressing and pinching. “Wanna do this all night.”

“Yes.”

“But we’ll be eating charcoal if I don’t stop soon.”

My mind clears, bringing with it the smell of searing meat and