is Mr. Darcy?”
She puts one hand on my shoulder and runs it up and down my arm, all the way to my wrist and back up to my shoulder three or four times before she links her fingers with mine. She smiles at me with a look of pity that says she feels sorry for me because I’m so embarrassingly moronic.
“Darcy is a guy from a book. A super sexy guy from a super famous book.”
“Is there a movie about his book?” I ask, drawing the back of my hand from the side of her neck and down between the nestled red lace. I stop and run a finger inside one cup, then the other, and she closes her eyes and swallows hard.
“A few. Movies...about Mr. Darcy. Yeah, there are.” She snuggles closer to me and lets her hand bump over my ribs and my abs, then come to a quick stop right at the waistband of my boxers.
“We’ll have to watch them. You know. Some morning after we have marathon sex and just need a day to recharge.”
It’s too dark to see her face, but I can almost feel the heat of her blush. I link my fingers in her panties and tug them down an inch, two, before she stills my hand.
“Wait.” She reaches down and pulls off the socks. “I know you’re a guy and can have sex with your socks on and all, but it doesn’t work that way for me. Socks just kill the mood, in my opinion.”
I reach down and pull mine off. “Okay. Darcy is sexy. Socks are unsexy. Even when combined with Darcy. Noted.”
“You’re going to have me completely figured out, and then I won’t be able to resist you,” she whispers, leading my hand back to her panties.
I push them down until they tangle at her feet and she has to kick them off. My hand runs along the small curve of her ass and up her back to the clasp of her bra, which I make quick work of.
“That’s the plan.” I kiss her along her shoulders and down lower, taking a nipple in my mouth and sucking.
She gasps and pulls her knees up, cradling me between her legs.
“Good?” I double check.
“R-r-really good, Landry.” Her nails scratch light lines down my back, and she hooks her thumbs in the waistband of my jeans, but doesn’t push them down.
She pulls her thumbs towards my stomach until they meet in the middle, then presses them out so they bump over my hip bones, trace along my spine, and rub just below the small of my back. Her fingers barely brush my skin and kind of tickle.
But sexy gigolos with lava lamps don’t get ticklish during hot sex.
Only her fingers are stroking so softly right at my ribs, and I’m not made of stone. I’m not. I pull back and laugh.
“Did I tickle you?” she asks with a wicked smile.
“You know how you think socks are unsexy?” I kiss the tip of her nose and push up on my arms to put myself out of reach of her tickling fingers. She nods and makes her face too innocent, so I know she’s got an excellent handle on exactly what she’s doing. “I think tickling, the word tickle, the whole idea is completely unsexy. For a guy, of course.”
“Sexist,” she accuses, her mouth making a perfect ‘o’ of glee. “So it’s fine for you to tickle me, but not the other way around?”
“Mmm, kinda,” I kiss her neck. “Though I think it’s always a pretty bad idea. Tickling is all fun and games until someone pisses their pants.”
I can feel the laugh that bubbles in her throat through my lips, and I rush up to kiss her and catch it, directly in the open space of my mouth.
She jerks her hands over my ribs a few times, mock tickling me, and would have kept the ruse up if I didn’t resort to true gigolo tactics. I pull away from her mouth and lick and suck down her neck, down her arms, around her nipples, over the juts of her hips and the dip of her stomach, and she only stops laughing when I kiss her thighs, along the tops.
I kiss her quiet, and run one hand between her ankles, up along the smooth muscles of her calves and to the damn of her knees, pressed as tight as her sexy smile was loose.
“Do you want me to stop here? Because you have great knees.”