I'd Rather Not (KPD Motorcycle Patrol 3)

Not that I knew he was there.

I moaned again, hating the way even the slightest touch from my end now caused me to nearly come.

God, I was so pitiful.

So…

The door opened and I snatched my hand away, hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t seen.

But one look in his eyes and I knew he had.

There was no way that he couldn’t.

Not with the way he parked around the backside of the house, and definitely not with the way it was dark outside now and every light in the house was on, illuminating what was going on inside.

“Uhhh,” I hesitated, unsure what to say.

But there was nothing to say.

And Pace didn’t ask for words.

Instead, he stalked to me, bent down, and hauled me up against him.

“Fuck it,” he said. “I just can’t do it anymore. I just…can’t.”

Then he kissed me.

This was no mild kiss.

This was a soul-destroying kiss that nearly brought me to my knees.

His tongue was hot as it swept into my mouth, and God, his hands.

His hands were on my ass, pulling me in tight to him.

His long, strong fingers were curling around my ass cheeks and finding their way inside of my shorts as he moved his hands in and up to cup my ass.

“I want you so bad I can’t breathe,” he told me. “Sometimes, I lie awake at night and think only of you. My dick is hard, but even my hand doesn’t satisfy it anymore.”

I moaned low in my throat and started to run my hands up Pace’s well-defined chest.

I felt each dip and indentation of his muscles.

But it wasn’t enough.

I wanted his skin on mine.

“Pace,” I whispered. “Please.”

He didn’t need to be asked.

He knew exactly what I wanted.

Pushing away from me slightly, he whipped his shirt over his head by taking a hold of the collar and hunching his shoulders in. The t-shirt came off in seconds, followed shortly by mine.

That was when he saw that I wasn’t wearing a bra.

“I knew it,” he groaned. “With every shift of your Jeep, I watched your tits bounce.”

I grinned wickedly. “I like driving you wild. I was hoping if I could just push you over the edge, you’d take the bait.”

“Well, seeing you masturbate in my kitchen was the trigger, darlin’,” he told me.

I didn’t correct him.

I was too busy trying to force myself not to come.

His hands were on my breasts, and he was pinching my nipples as he slowly brought one of them up to his waiting lips.

When his hot tongue curled around the hard peak, I swear to Christ I nearly came.

He pulled back, realizing that I liked it, then watched my face as he went back for more.

This time, he didn’t stop.

This time, he sucked and sucked and sucked until I cried out in surprise.

That was when my orgasm rolled over me.

I came quick and hard, and I knew without a doubt that he knew what he did to me.

His eyes were wide with need as he pulled away, my nipple leaving his mouth with a loud suck, and started to lower the zipper of his jeans.

My heartbeat, which was already hammering, turned erratic as it tried to compensate for all the emotions that were roiling through my body right now.

God, how I wanted the man.

His shirt was gone, and his pants were now being unzipped.

I swallowed hard when I got my first good look at the triangle of skin that was exposed when the gap of his pants fell open.

Well, as open as it could seeing as his pants were pretty tight.

There was no way for them not to be, though.

The man had an ass and thighs for days.

The kind of ass that a woman would kill for. One that he could bounce a quarter off of or balance a damn beer bottle and recreate the iconic Kim Kardashian photo.

So there was no sagging of the jeans when they were unbuttoned.

He’d have to peel them off.

Which I both loved and hated.

But, for the time being, I was enjoying looking at the root of his cock that was exposed, framed by his pants.

I also enjoyed looking at the rest of his cock that was hanging down the right side of his jeans.

“Did you know the majority of American men tuck left?” I said, spouting off knowledge that I’d learned while reading one of my favorite romance authors. “So much so in fact that they built what they call a ‘rise’ in jeans on the left side to allow for those American men who tuck left. I think right tuckers are just screwed.”

After my verbal spewage, I looked up to find Pace’s amused eyes on me.

“I guess I need to start tucking left.” He paused. “It just goes where it goes. Some jeans it’s more comfortable to go left than right, and sometimes it’s more comfortable to do the opposite.”