Dirty Games (Tropical Temptation)

The look he gave her told her he was about three seconds from throwing her over his shoulder, carrying her up the beach, and showing her who was in charge. She slapped a hand to the center of his chest and aimed her best nobody-puts-Baby-in-a-corner look at him. “Or are you afraid to put all these big, strong muscles at my mercy?”

He lowered his brows in a scowl. “Quinn, I’ve got two left feet and a dick as hard and heavy as a ten-pound free weight throbbing in my shorts. You really think you’ve got what it takes to turn me into Patrick Swayze?”

“You bet your two left feet I do. Now take your ten-pound dick and go stand over there.”

…

Luke waded knee deep into the surf and stood where Quinn indicated. “Here?”

“Face me.”

“Never turn your back to the ocean,” he grumbled, but did as she asked. Nothing the Caribbean threw at him could be more dangerous than Quinn standing ten feet away on the sand, wearing a reckless smile and a tiny black scrap of a bikini bottom. Sunlight bathed her, turning her skin luminous, and shimmering off her blond hair like a halo. His chest tightened just looking at her. Words he’d promised himself he wouldn’t say yet echoed in his mind. He shook his head to silence them.

“When I say ‘up,’ I want you to plant your feet, bend your knees a little, and put your arms up like this,” Quinn instructed, and raised her hands over her head, palms up, about shoulder width apart. The move lifted her breasts like an offering. His cock jerked so hard, he nearly groaned.

“Like this?”

She nodded. “Perfect.” She lowered her arms and backed up several steps, moving diagonally as she went.

Instinctively he turned to keep them head-on. “No, don’t move,” she said, and waved her hand at him to indicate he should resume his original position. He did. When she was about ten feet away and to his right, she stopped. “Ready?”

“I have no idea.”

Her laugh held absolutely no concern. “Just do the thing when I say the word. You’ll be fine.” With that, she lifted her arms above her head in a graceful arc. Then she was in motion, her moves practiced but easy, like LeBron making a layup. First a small step, followed by a big step, and then she leaped into the air—front leg straight, back leg bent so her toes grazed the ends of her hair.

She stole his breath.

Every line of her body flowed with agile power. The one-legged landing involved some kind of pivot, and next thing he knew she was running straight at him, hair flying, chest bouncing, lips forming a word over and over again, and through a hazy buzz of lust it almost sounded like…

Uuuuuup!

Fuck. He bent his knees and raised his arms as she closed the distance between them. The wave retreated, giving her more runway, and then—holy shit—she flew. Literally flew over his head. He caught her by the hips, extended his arms to lock his elbows and stop her forward trajectory. Momentum forced him to take a step back, and then he had her, really had her. Five feet four inches of surprisingly strong, lithe woman balanced like a statue above him.

Triumphant laughter rang in his ears—hers and his—and to keep hers going, he reinforced his grip and spun her in a slow circle. “Oh my God,” she shouted, and wrapped her hands around his forearms. “You’re a natural.”

They hadn’t worked on a dismount, but when she let her back relax and lowered her legs, he levered his arms down, tipped his head, and kissed the black triangle covering her sex.

The move wrung a long, indulgent sigh from her.

“You haven’t seen the full extent of my talent.” Keeping one hand on her hip, he splayed the other along the back of her thigh, and shifted her around until he hitched her leg over his shoulder.

She shrieked and clung to his neck, enveloping his head in a full body hug.

He staggered, then caught himself, and mumbled, “Other leg,” against her thigh. “I’ve got you.”

It took her a second to find her balance, but then she leaned back into the hands he had braced under her ass and slung her other leg over his shoulder. He lifted her hips until he could bury his face at the apex of her thighs.

She draped over him, her chin digging into his skull, her arms clasped behind his neck. His lips met damp swimsuit. “Your bikini is soaked. Do I have the ocean to thank for that, or you?”

“Luke…”

He flattened his tongue against the fabric stretched snug over her sex and took a long taste. “You. All you.” He tongued her through the suit, his fingers digging into her fleshiest parts when she started to squirm.

Her voice murmured his name in a steady soundtrack of need. A hand fisted in his hair. Legs hooked around his body until the tops of her feet pressed against his ribs. She bucked against his face.

He shoved her closer. Held her there and flayed her relentlessly, until her body stiffened, until he felt that little quiver against his tongue…until her taste flooded his mouth and her scream filled his ears.

A few staggering steps were all he could manage. The lining of his swim trunks threatened to saw his balls off. With a groan of warning, he dropped to his knees in the receding surf, and lowered her to the wet sand.