Perfect Strangers

18

He kisses me again,more hungrily this time, sliding his hand underneath me to squeeze my ass, then groans.

“Christ, this peach.”

I decide to be light and flirtatious instead of weepy and morose at the thought of leaving him in a few months…and what will come after. There will be plenty of time for weepy and morose later, when I’m alone. I say coyly, “Don’t bruise the merchandise, please. The peach is muy delicato.”

He nips my lower lip and squeezes my ass harder. “Yes,” he breathes, “it sure fucking is. And now it’s time to pink it up with my handprints.”

His words thrill me, as do his eyes, which are darkening the way they do when he’s starting to lose himself to desire.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because he stands, lifts me up, and tosses me over his shoulder, as easily as if I were as light as a feather.

Which, it should be noted, I definitely am not.

My hair hanging down and my eyes level with his magnificent ass—clad in a pair of tight jeans that showcase it to perfection—I pretend to be offended.

“In case you haven’t noticed, sir, I’m not a sack of potatoes.”

Swaggering through the bedroom toward the master bathroom with one big hand squeezed around the back of my thigh, James says, “I don’t get the reference.”

“Because you carry them over your shoulder.”

He scoffs. “Who does? I’ve never once seen anyone carrying around a sack of potatoes like that.”

That makes me laugh. “Me, neither, now that you mention it. I must’ve read it somewhere.”

James stops beside the bathtub, flips me upright, and sets me on my feet. He says, “If you’d read Hemingway enough, you’d know that real men don’t carry around sacks of vegetables on their shoulders.”

He strips off my shirt, tosses it aside, and unhooks my bra. It also gets tossed. Then he pulls me against him and fastens his wonderful mouth around one of my nipples.

I gasp, digging my fingers into his shoulders and arching against him. Dear God, the man is good with his tongue.

“Oh yes. I forgot. Real men are too busy scaling mountains or waving red capes at confused bulls who were just standing around minding their own business before they got thrown into a ring with some idiot in a clown costume.”

James’s chuckle is muffled against my skin. Breaking away from my breast for a moment, he impatiently tugs down the zipper of my jeans, pulls the jeans over my hips, and yanks them down my thighs. I kick out of them, and he pushes them away, kneeling in front of me.

He grabs my ass and shoves his face between my legs, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply against my panties.

I picture Kelly’s face if she were seeing this right now—popped out eyes and a gaping mouth—and suppress a giggle.

James looks up at me, arching an eyebrow. “Something funny?”

“You’re very…” This calls for a big word, but I can’t think of one. “Primitive.”

“Primitive?” he repeats, as if I’ve insulted his intelligence.

“I mean it in a good way. Like a macho, Hemingway-ish way.” Bashfully, I add, “I like it. You make me feel feminine.”

His smile comes on slow and dangerous. “Me, Tarzan,” he says, gazing up at me, his voice low and rough. “You, Jane.”

Then, very deliberately, still staring into my eyes, he bites me between the legs.

I suck in a hard breath, though it doesn’t hurt. It’s just the sheer masculine sexuality of it, the dominance, the way it says this is mine and I want to eat it.

Before I have a chance to unpretzel my brain, James swivels me around so I’m facing the glass shower door. Still on his knees, he sinks his teeth into my ass.

Again, not hard enough to hurt. But again, oh so sexy.

He hooks his thumbs under the elastic of my panties and slides them down my legs, smoothing his hands over my bare flesh until he reaches my ankles. His warm breath fans over my bare bottom. I shiver with anticipation, my heart starting to pound.

I step out of my panties as James moves his mouth to the other side of my behind and bites. Then he commands, “Put your hands against the shower door.”

It’s his dominant voice.

My pulse skyrockets. Heat blooms over my skin. I do as I’m told, leaning forward to flatten my hands against the glass, which makes my back arch and my bottom stick out at an angle. When I hear James’s low oath of pleasure, blood rushes to my cheeks. I’m suddenly breathless.

“I wish you knew what this does to me,” he whispers harshly, squeezing big handfuls of my bottom. “Seeing you like this. Presenting yourself. Trusting me. I wish I could tell you how much I fucking love it.”

Sliding a hand between my thighs, he opens his mouth over my flesh, sucking and nipping first one cheek, then the other. He slips a finger between my folds and finds the bud of my clitoris, already wet and swollen.