Light Her Fire (Private Pleasures 2)

“Yes, what?” he prompted again.

Inspiration struck. “Yes, I want you to fuck me.”

A second later his fingers hooked into her panties. Another tug, and her underwear landed around her ankles.

Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was taking in the view. Her skin prickled under the heat of his gaze. A hard, calloused palm slid down her spine, over her bare cheeks, and squeezed. Those long, sure fingers angled between her legs.

“Please,” she said again, and brought her hands up to hold the column in front of her, then leaned in and let the post take her weight. Stabilized, she went up on her toes, but instead of delving deeper, he moved his hand to her thigh.

“Stand up straight and spread them.” His voice vibrated in her ear. Her heart raced. Her legs trembled, but she managed to give up the support of the post, step out of her clothes and plant her feet hip-distance apart.

“Like this?” Every nerve ending in her body protested the new position. Open. Aching. Desperate for relief, and denied the small comfort of rubbing her thighs together to relieve the unbelievable pressure.

He stepped between her and the column. His eyes gleamed and a smile played across his lips. Keeping his gaze on her face, he knelt in front of her. “Very good.” He slid his hands up the backs of her thighs. “Hold on to the post.”

She gripped it so hard her knuckles ached. Nobody who saw her at this moment would mistake her for a good girl.

The feel of warm lips on the point of her hip sent her thoughts scattering. “Show me more pink, Bluelick.”

She wanted to, so badly, but before she could work out the logistics, he slid an arm between her thighs and lifted one leg onto his shoulder.

She sucked in a breath and tried to prepare herself for what came next…her, God willing…but then lost the hard-fought oxygen when he slipped a finger inside her.

“God, yes.” Her back arched. Her hips bucked, blindly seeking a way to ride what he’d given her as fast and as far as she could. But he wouldn’t let her get far. He held her there, balanced on one leg, wide open before him, impaled on one finger.

She flung her head back and stared at the moon, wondering how much more she could take. As if he’d read the thought, he dipped his head and seared a hot line of openmouthed kisses up her inner thigh. Higher still. Into the freshly waxed territory she’d carefully prepared for just this contingency. And then, sweet heaven, into her folds. His tongue traced the tender flesh stretched around his slowly thrusting finger…and moved on, flicking closer and closer to the bundle of nerves quivering for his attention. Instead of giving it, however, he paused there for a suspended second, breathing her in.

Sweat coated her skin. Shivers racked her body. Whatever thread of control she had left unraveled. A sound embarrassingly close to a wail exploded from her mouth, and she didn’t give a damn. She tightened her grip on the post and rocked her hips forward—shoving herself into his face.

A hard hand at her hip kept her still, and Josh’s deep voice washed over her anguished flesh. “Looks like you’re ready to count.”

“Wha…?” He thrust his finger deep and dragged his tongue over her—quick, hard, and straight down the center.

A white-hot bolt of lightning shot through her, burning a path from her sex to brain and exploding behind her closed eyelids. Another powerful bolt built behind it, just beneath the point where his tongue rested. And then, holy crap, he withdrew his tongue.

“Oh, please. Damn you. Oh, please.”

“Count for me. That was one.”

She couldn’t get her breath. Couldn’t form a thought, and he wanted her to count? “O-one.”

Like a miracle, his tongue returned, and stroked her again.

“Two,” she sobbed as the lightning speared through her again. The world spiraled away into a swirl of heat and light. Only two fragile things anchored her—her fingernails digging into wood, and the tip of Josh’s tongue pressed to the center of her universe. From somewhere across the chaos of oblivion, she heard herself begging, “Three. Three. Please give me three…” Then he raked her again and she went flying, twisting, falling…

Apparently actually falling, because when the last blissful shudder worked its way out of her system, she blinked her heavy, strangely watery eyes open and realized Josh still knelt on her porch, with her now draped over him like a rag doll. Knees on either side of his hips, breasts smashed against his chest, and her head lolling on his wide, solid shoulder. Somebody sobbed, and his arm tightened around her waist.

“Shhh. Enough of that, Bluelick.”

She lifted her head, intending to ask him what he meant, but to her utter dismay a hiccuping sob burst from her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth and drew back. Sure enough, there was a big wet spot on his white shirt, complete with a couple smears of mascara.

“Sorry. I made a mess of you.” She scrubbed at one of the black smudges and only succeeded in smearing it more. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ll pay to have that dry-cleaned.”

He caught her chin in his hand and lifted her face to his. “A long-overdue and well-deserved orgasm is what came over you, and I don’t give a fuck about my shirt.”

Long overdue? Try looooong overdue. But still, she couldn’t believe she’d lost control to the point she’d bawled. She scooted off him and picked up her dress. “That’s gentlemanly of you.” She stepped into her dress and got to work on the buttons. “I’m not one of those girls, I want you to know. I don’t usually…” She fluttered her hand around her face.

He stood, grinning, and then reached out. His quick fingers beat hers to the last button. “You don’t usually come so hard you cry?”