Drawn Deep (Afternoon Delight 2)

When she took in the naked desire in his expression, her heart stalled out.

“You are—” he began, his tone awed.

“Don’t.” His flattery seemed uncalled-for, unnecessary even. Bodies were meant to be used and enjoyed and she enjoyed hers often. Words were superfluous. It was so much easier to cup his face to taste them still hovering on his lips, caught there like a wish he’d yet to make.

Wordlessly, he undid his shirt buttons, not moving to kiss her fully, not moving away until his undressing separated their mouths. When he finally stood naked in front of her, she let her gaze travel over him from his freckle-dusted shoulders—funny how those golden specks stood out so much in the low light—to his ridiculously ripped chest and abs, right on down to his hard cock, curving up his stomach.

Yep, it was as amazing this close as it had been at a slight distance. No optical illusions either time.

“Please, sit.” Voice rough, he gestured toward the sofa before taking the leather armchair opposite her. “Let me look at you.”

That should’ve sounded creepy. Why didn’t it? She sat at his command and even spread her legs to allow him better visual access.

He didn’t speak but his body shifted, thighs opening to mirror her pose. Testing him, she cupped her breast, toying with the nipple, her head falling back at the sharp tug in her groin. The champagne had lowered her limited inhibitions and damn, she was already wet. Slipping her other hand down, she slid her finger over her trimmed patch of hair, skating down to her swollen lower lips. Wetness coated them and her finger as she circled her clit, incapable of even lifting her head to watch him take his own pleasure. But she heard his soft grunts, and the slick sounds his hand made as it shuttled up and down his shaft.

Had he spit in his palm? God, that was hot. She wanted to see. Wanted to taste. Just…wanted.

Her own fingers traveled in lazy patterns, building her need. Until she plunged inside her tightening pussy and realized that she’d self-foreplayed up to the crisis point. A few more slides and circles and she’d give him the show he’d asked for.

First she needed to watch him.

She raised her head and gasped at the sight of him stretched back in the chair, long legs out, massive cock in his hand while he pumped nice and slow. The image imprinted itself in her mind, to be replayed at every future solo-sex opportunity. Sweat glistened on his defined chest, the droplets gleaming in the firelight. A dab of pre-come topped his erection, the whipped cream to her banana split. He wiped it off carelessly and she moaned, regretting the loss. His mouth flattened, the lines of his face going taut the longer he stared at her, seemingly riveted by what she was doing.

As if hypnotized, she started working her finger in and out of her drenched channel. He groaned at the loud wet sound of her thrusts, shoulders hunching, legs tensing. Hand a blur.

“Come,” he demanded in a gravelly tone that wouldn’t have done it alone. She wasn’t a sex bot, much as she wished she were that easily instructed in matters of climax. But when he fumbled for his balls, pulling on them in a clumsy, artless way that had to hurt, and his mouth fell open on a silent shout, she gave in to the contractions that twisted through her and left her sobbing for breath.

Freaking A.

She’d just made herself come in front of a man she barely knew while he did the same. Somehow they’d been together even in their separateness. She’d never experienced anything like this before and yet the moment felt familiar, as if they weren’t strangers at all. His eyes were wide open and on hers, his look of gratitude—for what, she didn’t know—as physical as a hug.

Regret didn’t follow the moments of ecstasy. She also didn’t feel a blinding desire to leave. Her only response was to smile and lift her sticky fingers to her mouth.

“Was it good for you?” she purred, taking her first lick to his rumbling laughter.

Kim woke to a still-roaring fire, dim lights and a pine-smelling blanket tucked around her chin. A comfortable pillow cradled her head, not one from the sofa. The sofa? She shot up on one elbow and glanced around, orienting herself to her surroundings. Where the hell was she?

The pounding behind her left eye brought home the reality right quick. Randall’s class. Meeting Michael, after meeting Michael’s handsome penis. Diner dinner, sticker shock at Michael’s digs, confusion about whether she should jump him or run. Downing way too much champagne.

Then…oh then. So many bad decisions in such a short time.

She groaned softly and rubbed her grainy eyes. Her mouth tasted like a bucket of rust. Charming. She didn’t have her toothbrush or her hairbrush or even clean panties. This sleepover sucked.

Like she’d sucked her own fingers. More accurately, licked.

Oh fuck, there went her clit again. She pressed her thighs together and wondered if she could legitimately blame her hormones for her questionable choices.

She swung her legs over the side and sat up, pleased to note the room didn’t revolve. Progress. It was a pity she was such a lightweight drinker. She looked at her watch. Four a.m. She’d been out for a while, which meant she’d had time to sober up. Other than her vague headache, she definitely didn’t feel like she’d been drinking. Any hint of a buzz was so long gone she barely remembered it.

Kim pulled up the blanket and considered her options. Wait and deal with a potentially awkward morning after? She really didn’t see how it could be anything but awkward in light of the previous night’s events. Her plan had been a light friendly dinner and somehow, thanks to her brother, she’d ended up bunking in a mansion with a dick model who liked to play dirty show ’n’ tell.

She ran her hand down the soft navy blue blanket Michael had draped over her. Vaguely, she remembered him whispering instructions. Half bath down the hall, off the study. Extra pillows and blankets in the linen closet in the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Fresh fruit and filtered water in the fridge. She glanced at the table beside the couch. Aspirin bottle and a glass of juice waiting.

God, the guy really was too good to be true.

She should stay and face him. That would be polite. Before she got the hell out of the forest and returned to civilization, she should thank him and offer him friendship. A phone and text relationship only because anything more

would lead them right into sex. And she had a sneaking suspicion it would not be the casual, no-strings affair that he’d implied it would be.