Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,47

failed completely. My ears were burning and when I looked at him, his knuckles were white from his grip on the steering wheel. The air in the cab became thick and smothering with the sexual energy we both were radiating.

“I...don’t think we’re ready for that just yet,” he said. I groaned and he threw me a devilish smirk. “But I do have an idea.”

Reagan had been excellent at kissing me. So much kissing and frantic hands and urgent grinding. But the glorious motherfucker had stopped us short of any kind of sex each time. My body was strung taut as a guitar string and if he didn’t pluck me soon, I was going to snap. So whatever his idea was, I needed it to include touching—and lots of it.

We drove out of town, down country roads. He turned on the radio and we sang classic rock songs together, using the music as an excuse to not talk about what was clearly on our minds. I didn’t miss the tent he was popping as he drove, my mouth practically watering at the thought of sucking him off.

Fewer and fewer cars passed us, and then Reagan surprised me by turning down a gravel road, the passage rough until he reached a lake. It was almost blue in the sunlight, the horizon of it speckled with small boats zooming around, their wakes becoming the waves that crashed to shore. “This is beautiful.”

“It’s private,” Reagan replied. My eyes widened as I turned to look at him. He was staring at me, his blue eyes intent and hungry. “I put a surprise in the bed of the truck. Want to go see it?”

My mouth was dry as cotton, but I nodded and slid out of the passenger seat. The sun was hot on my skin, but it was nothing compared to how heated I felt inside. The air smelled like water and flowers and fresh-cut grass. I walked around to the bed of Reagan’s truck on legs that felt like Jell-O.

Reagan lowered the tailgate and helped me up, his touches lingering and making my blood roar in my ears.

“Look in the box,” he said, signaling to a wooden box secured near the cab. I scooted over, feeling the truck rock as Reagan joined me in the bed. As I lifted the lid, I heard the snap as he locked the tailgate back in place.

Inside the box was a pile of blankets. My hand reached out to smooth along the top of one. Then I felt Reagan’s breath hot on my neck, his body brushing my back. “Take the blankets and spread them out in the bed.”

Hands trembling, I did what he said. He’d commanded me, albeit in his own quiet, stern way, and my body reacted to it. I liked it. My stomach tightened in the hope that his order was a promise of more to come.

And I’d noticed the way he reacted when I said things like, yes, sir.

So I decided to even the playing field, grabbing the top blanket and saying, “Yes, sir.”

His groan was like a lighter, and I was fucking combusting. As I spread out the blankets, his hands were on me, stroking my back, tugging at my hips, squeezing my ass. Each touch ramped up my longing until I was pretty sure his hand would just have to brush my dick for me to come.

When I’d spread them all out, Reagan sat back on his knees. “Strip and lie down.”

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Awful tattoos, Professor Madigan’s long-ass lectures, Brad’s hairy ass… a litany of unsexy things to keep from shaming myself by busting a nut before we’d even begun. Out in the open, under a clear sky and with the soothing sounds of water behind me, I took off my shirt. Unclasped my belt and slid my jeans off my hips. My boxer briefs came last and my cock was so hard it slapped my belly when I sprang free, precum landing in stringed pools on my stomach.

Reagan looked at me until I trembled under his gaze. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Channing.”

Then he kissed me. And let me tell you, kissing without clothes is very different from kissing with them. He laid me back, the weight of his clothed body covering mine. The difference in our sizes, in the undressed versus dressed, in the sheer intoxicating masculinity of him in the moment unspooled me. My body wasn’t my own any more. It was his.

I opened for him. My mouth