More Than Anything (Broken Pieces 1)

He shuddered at the first tentative caress and then groaned when her soft hands found his nipples.

“Wait. Stop . . . Tina,” he implored, and she glared up at him.

“Stop telling me to stop doing the fun stuff.”

“The fun stuff will make this end sooner than either of us would like,” he said, and she looked put out by his response.

“Again?”

He choked back a laugh at her plaintive cry.

“Just let me do my thing.”

“Well, less talking and more doing, then!”

He chuckled, loving this bossy streak, and then bent to suckle one of her perfect breasts.

“Oh.”

Her soft, surprised gasp made his heart soar. The heart that only ever soared and dipped and fluttered and swelled for her.

She went quiet, her breathing escalating as she arched her back with each strong pull from his mouth. He gave her other nipple similar treatment before happily kissing and suckling and licking his way down her soft, sweet curves, over the gentle mound of her stomach, stopping for a moment to explore her shallow belly button, before continuing to the beautifully maintained triangle of fiery curls that so gorgeously ornamented her femininity.

He used his thumbs to open her plump, pretty pinkness up to his gaze and stared for a reverent moment before taking his first hungry taste of her.

The helpless sound that emerged from her throat was deeply sexy, and Harris reached down with one hand to adjust himself, unbuttoning his fly clumsily in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure.

He continued to feast on Tina’s lush sweetness, adoring the unique taste and creamy texture of her.

He suckled her clit in the same way he had done her nipples, and it drove her wild—she cried out and bucked whenever he did that—so he used it sparingly, wanting to make this last for her. For them both.

She was begging now. “Please, please, please, please!” And he reached down again, this time to stroke himself.

“Do you want to come, baby?” he asked thickly. And she made an incoherent sound of assent. “I’ll make you come.”

Her fingers were twisted in his hair, pulling with more force than he thought she recognized. But he didn’t care . . . all he cared about was her pleasure. All he wanted was to feel her explode on his tongue.

He closed his mouth over that hard little clit and applied a small amount of suction. He held her on the brink for the longest moment before flicking her with his tongue and then pulling her more deeply into his mouth. Suckling hard enough to send her tumbling into orgasm.

She squeaked, an honest-to-God little squeak, and then moaned, the sound low and long. He squeezed his forefinger and thumb around his cock, where head met shaft, in an attempt to stave off his climax. A successful attempt. By the time she’d stopped thrusting against his tongue, he had himself back under some semblance of control again.

Tina sank slowly back down to earth, like a feather floating leisurely on the faintest of breezes. Harris was very, very good with his tongue. She had always expected to feel embarrassed by cunnilingus. But there had been no time for self-consciousness, and his every sound, word, and look had been so ridiculously flattering it had been hard to be embarrassed. It had helped that he’d clearly been extremely turned on by what he was doing.

He repositioned himself, kneeling between her widely spread thighs, his ripped chest bare. She feasted her eyes on all that magnificence, the hard abs leading down to that Adonis belt, the fly of his jeans open enough to reveal the plum-size, angry-red glans of his penis.

“I want that,” she said, pointing to his crotch with a shaky forefinger. “I want it in my mouth, I want to taste it the way you just tasted me.”

He swore vehemently beneath his breath and lifted his intense gaze to hers.

“I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart. But later, okay? Right now, I want to make love with you.”

“I told you I don’t want to make love,” she reminded him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, visibly trembling as he fought to remain in control.

“I know. I’ll do the other thing instead.” He got off her, standing beside the bed, his fevered gaze glued to her body, while he toed off his sneakers. He dug around in his back pocket and produced a condom. He slotted the foil package between his even white teeth before using his hands to push his jeans past his narrow hips down to his feet and half tripping as he stepped out of them.

His eyes tracked down to the spot between her still-spread thighs, where she felt wet, heavy, and swollen, and—instead of following her natural inclination to squeeze her thighs together—she spread them farther apart. And, feeling particularly daring, reached down to stroke herself for him. The swollen knot of her clit pulsed against her fingertips, and she moaned in response to the sensitivity, her own gaze moving down his body to where his hand was clutched around the head of his shaft. His knuckles whitened as his grip strengthened.