Light Her Fire (Private Pleasures 2)

He stared down at her, all calm and controlled, except for a hint of a frown tugging down the corner of his mouth. “I’ve heard that name a lot tonight. You sure you’re ready to move on?”

“Yes.” She tried to imbue the word with all the certainty she could muster, because she was ready. More than ready. One night with Josh promised to be the hottest, most passionate experience of her life. Heck, Tuesday night already claimed that honor. She’d never felt this relentless, physical need. Why she kept sabotaging her golden opportunity to satisfy it was completely beyond her. “I’m ready. The past is the past. Roger and I are over. O-V-E-R. Done. Finished. Kaput.”

He traced her lips with a fingertip—probably to shut her up. “Fine. That means there’s no need to rush things. No deadline saying we have to make this happen tonight. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere.”

Oh, but she was. She could feel it. She was headed right back onto the shelf she’d been occupying for all of her adult life. Not again. Not without a fight.

She fingered the first button on the bodice of her dress and then flicked it open. The move captured his attention. His eyes dropped to her chest.

“Bluelick, what are you doing?”

“Something I fantasized about all night.” She undid another button, unsnapped the front clasp of her bra, and got on her knees. His attention remained riveted on her exposed cleavage. When she reached for his fly, he didn’t protest.

“You fantasized about putting on a show right here on your front porch? Is that how you like it?”

After 10:00 p.m. in Bluelick pretty much guaranteed them all the privacy they could ask for, but the idea of someone happening along sent an illicit little thrill right through her.

“I fantasize about all sorts of things. How about you, Chief? Have you been doing any fantasizing?”

He laughed, but the sound held little humor. “I’ve been fantasizing about you since day one. The things I’ve done with you”—his voice deepened—“to you, in my mind, would burn your Southern-belle image to ashes. And right now, Miss Merritt, you are playing with fire.”

Fine by her. She wanted the fire. Wanted the heat, and the burn, and was past caring what got ruined in the process—including her Southern-belle image, which would definitely go down in flames in the admittedly unlikely event someone happened by. The element of risk made the situation all the hotter. She undid his fly with shaking fingers, shoved his jeans and boxers down to his knees, and then she had him in her hand. Every hard, smooth, jutting inch of him. Their groans overlapped as she closed her fist around his shaft, pulling it away from his stomach, testing the strength and resilience of his erection. When she let go, he sprang back, longer and harder than ever. A pass—with flying colors.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and reached for her with one hand. With the other, he reached for his hard-on, and she realized if she didn’t act fast, he’d take charge.

She leaned away, until her back came up against the railing. “Grab the porch column,” she said. “Right now. Both hands.”

“Hold on one damn second.”

He reached for her again, and she feared he was going to pull her to her feet, and even worse, wish her good-night. But he didn’t. He snagged the straps of her dress and yanked them down, giving him a clear view of her bare breasts. The night was hot, and his gaze even hotter, but her nipples pebbled anyway. She shrugged the straps out of her way and took him in her hand again. He hissed in a breath as she squeezed, getting a firm hold, and then tugged him forward.

“Jesus,” he said again, watching her through narrowed eyes.

His obvious appreciation thrilled her…and made her bolder. She scraped her nipple up his shaft, along the flare of his head, and then up to the very tip. His thigh muscles clenched. His hips came forward, seeking more.

“If you want more, you’ll get your hands on that column. Right now,” she added when he didn’t move a muscle.

Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he reached up above her head and wrapped his hands around the turned wood post. A compliment on his obedience hovered on the tip of her tongue, until he added, “Better put me in the sweet spot, Bluelick. The longer I wait, the longer I’m going to make you beg when I take my turn.”

His turn? Her heartbeat kicked up in anticipation. She positioned his erection between her breasts and used her upper arms to trap him in her cleavage, experiencing an unexpected jolt of pleasure at the sensation of skin touching skin—the warm, oddly comforting weight of him nestled there.

“God, that’s so fucking good. Squeeze those pretty breasts. That’s it,” he added when she did as he asked. “Nice and tight.”

“Tighter?” She cupped her breasts and pushed them together, so the flesh plumped around him.

“Christ, yes. Brace yourself.”

She pressed her heels and shoulder blades against the backstop of the porch slats. He rocked his hips forward. The sweat beading in her cleavage provided some lubrication, but the friction of his shaft riding the cleft between her breasts raced through her, scorching a path from her chest to her core. In reaction, her inner muscles contracted so hard she actually went weak, and she loosened her grip on her breasts.

“No.” The head of his erection disappeared down the tunnel between her breasts, and then surged out again. “Lick it. Suck it. Make it nice and wet, but keep me tight. I want you to feel me there tomorrow. That’s right,” he encouraged when she lowered her head and did as he asked, reveling in the feel of his wide, blunt head pushing past her lips, seeking attention from her tongue. She nearly moaned when he pulled back, suddenly robbing her mouth. Then he shoved forward again, and again, pumping his hips so fast and hard she barely had time to flick her tongue over him at the apex of each thrust.

Every aching, action-starved muscle inside her fluttered and clenched in a relentless rhythm, as if to punish her for delegating their rightful duty to her tender breasts, and the involuntary spasms sent rippling aftershocks along her nerve endings. She moaned.

“Your heart is pounding against my cock. Does it turn you on, watching me do this?”

“Yes.” No point playing coy. The whole thing had been her idea, and she was turned on. She tore her attention away from the action and looked at his face. To her astonishment, his attention was fixed directly on her. He didn’t have his eyes tightly closed, as if to block out reality and focus on some inner landscape. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn he was getting off on watching her. But she did know better. His staring at her meant something was wrong. Otherwise, he’d be oblivious to everything except chasing fulfillment, wouldn’t he?