Light Her Fire (Private Pleasures 2)

He didn’t answer, unless she counted nudging her knees a little farther apart as a response. The sound of steel casters on industrial-grade tile sent a tremor down her spine, even though she recognized the source of the noise. He’d moved the rolling stool closer to the table. She heard the sigh of the padded leather when he sat and the squeak of the wheels as he fine-tuned his position.

And then, bull’s-eye. She gasped as his tongue sneaked past all her natural protections and raked over the bundle of shatteringly sensitive receptors at her center. Every instinct in her body urged her to move. To bear down. To make the most of the contact. But decorum, of all things, held her back. He had her kneeling on an exam table, birthday naked, with her head down, her hips high, and her thighs spread wide, but dang, wouldn’t it be unladylike to rub herself against his tongue?

Without warning, he pulled back.

Words tumbled out of her mouth before she could catch them. “Oh, heavens. Don’t stop.”

He spanked her again. A little harder this time, and the sound reverberated off the exam room walls. “You’re not on vacation, Bluelick. No sitting still while I do all the work. I’m going to give you my tongue again. This time I expect you to use it. We’re going right to the edge, but not over. Understand?”

All she understood was she needed his touch. When his tongue made second contact, decorum dissolved. She moved her hips in an awkward, but gratifyingly effective rhythm. He wrapped his hands around her thighs, angled his head, and increased the pressure and pace. She catapulted headfirst into a frenzy.

Breath exploded from her lungs, along with pleas. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t. Stop.” She repeated the words like a mantra, because she was circling dangerously close to something she’d never, ever achieved in mixed company.

Without any warning, he removed his tongue again. Before a scream of frustration could pass her lips, he stood, and his callused hand came down on her backside once more, lower than ever, fingers skimming between her thighs. “Remember the instructions. Just to the line. Not over.”

“I can’t help it. I’m dying. You have no idea.”

“I do. I know exactly what you’re going through, and I have the cure right here. You think you’re ready for my cock? Ask nicely, and I’ll give you everything you need. I’ll fill you so completely you won’t remember what it’s like to feel restless and empty.”

Emotion clogged her throat, blocking her words, because the stakes suddenly seemed too high. He didn’t know what she was going through. Not really. He recognized a few physical symptoms he’d wrung from her—pounding heart, sweat-slicked skin, a sharp, almost painful desire—and was reassuringly confident of his ability to soothe what ailed her. But what if he couldn’t ease her restless, empty feeling? What if the feeling ran soul-deep, and nothing, including this, would take it away?

Every cell in her body pushed back with a blunt request. What’s say we leave your soul out of this and go for the orgasm? Her lungs, ever pragmatic, forced an expulsion of air that unlocked her vocal cords. “Please. Give it to me. Don’t stop.”

His arm circled her waist and his hand slid under her abdomen. His other hand smoothed down the back of her thigh, as if to calm her, and then, thank God in heaven, he guided the big, wide head of his erection into her. The hand on her abdomen splayed wider, lifting her, adjusting her.

And then, oh, God, yes, he thrust deep. Right there. He might be an arrogant bastard, and far too accustomed to being in charge, but at this moment, if he told her to jump, she would gladly ask how high. He thrust again and her body started contracting around him. Powerful ripples rolled through her, originating deep at her center and radiating out—all the way to her toes, all the way to the top of her head, leaving the soles of her feet and her scalp tingling.

“Ohhh. Ooooh,” some poor woman moaned, and she realized belatedly that the woman was her. No matter. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except the unspeakable pleasure building into a perfect storm inside her. A massive wave she planned to ride straight into bliss. Nothing could distract her from that wave. Nothing.

Nothing except a tinny voice coming from the hallway, saying, “9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”

Chapter Four

Josh froze as the hollow sound of a voice coming through a cell phone cut through the thunder of his own pulse echoing in his ears—as it usually did when he was about to come with the ferocity of a high-pressure hose on full throttle. Shit. They had company. Half a second from heaven was a hell of a time for an interruption.

Protective instincts kicked in. He pulled Melody off the table, snapped the tourniquet from her wrists and shoved her behind him even as he registered the intruder’s footsteps retreating rapidly down the hall. Somebody had gotten an eyeful, but he had no freaking clue who because he hadn’t seen a thing—he’d been a little too focused on giving Melody the ride of her life before driving headfirst into what had promised to be the most intense orgasm he’d had since Amy Littleton had shoved his fifteen-year-old ass into the backseat of her daddy’s Buick and showed him the meaning of the term blow job.

“Ohmigod, someone’s here,” Melody whispered, and tried to scoot past him. He caught her hand and reeled her back.

“Stay here. Don’t move.” He dragged his pants on and ran into the hallway just as the front door slammed shut. A barely dressed goddess hurtled past him, into the waiting room.

He followed and leaned over her while she hunkered down in the armchair next to the window facing the street. He used a finger to part the lowered blinds and peeked through. “What part of ‘don’t move’ do you not understand, Bluelick?”

She didn’t respond, just stared fixedly out the window until the building door opened and a petite dark-haired woman ran down the sidewalk toward a silver Mini parked at the curb. Melody’s breath leaked out, along with a low groan. “Oh, no.” She turned away from the window, balled herself up into the chair, and covered her face with her hands.

The Mini’s red taillights disappeared down Main. He let the blinds snap back into place. “Cleaning lady?”

A thick, watery laugh was her only response, but she didn’t need to answer. He already knew who’d walked in on them. Dr. Ellie Swann. Melody’s boss.

“It’ll be all right,” he said, which only provoked a longer, more hysterical round of laughter…or sobs. He couldn’t tell, but after a few seconds the noise died away until only her shoulders shook. Because he felt an awkward need to offer comfort, but really didn’t know what words to use in this situation, he crouched in front of the chair and stroked his hand over her hair. The silky texture made him want to twist the length around his fist, tip her head back, and…fuck…touching her was a stupid move. She was upset, and he had a permanent hard-on. He dropped his hand and stood. “I’ll get our things. Be right back.”

He took his time dressing, and then carried her shoes and purse out to the waiting room.

She must have heard him approach, because she sniffed, scrubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, and raised her head. His chest tightened when she gave him a weak smile.

“Trust me, honey, this is not as bad as you think. I imagine the doc has stolen a moment or two in the office.”

“Nothing like this. Although…I did recently catch Footlong Longfoot putting a big, steamy lip-lock on her in exam room one.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “Jesus. I’m babbling. Please don’t mention that to anyone.”