Down & Dirty (Lightning 1)

She’s beautiful, perfect, amazing, and making her come is fast becoming my favorite pastime—on the way to being a full-blown obsession.

But once her knees stop shaking, her hands are back in my hair and she’s tugging at me, urging me to my feet even as I slide my tongue along her sex.

“My turn,” she tells me, her voice husky but determined.

“I know,” I answer, pressing the words into the soft skin of her jaw as I lick my way toward her mouth. “I’ll take care of you.” I start to undo the delicate buttons of her blouse.

“No.” She fumbles with my belt. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

And then my jeans are open and she’s on her knees in front of me, her glorious hair a fiery crown around her head.

It’s so unexpected—so not what I have planned—that for long seconds, I don’t say anything. I can’t. I just stare down at her, completely wrapped up in how goddamn beautiful she is with her flushed skin, her sparkling eyes, her kiss-swollen lips.

In that moment, I want her mouth on me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But I’ve been offered more blow jobs in my life by more women than any man has a right to, and the last thing I want is for her to do this because she thinks she should. Because she thinks I expect it. And so I cup her cheek in my hand and tilt her face up to mine. And in a voice that is hoarse and more than a little strained, I tell her, “You don’t have to.”

She grins up at me then, slides her tongue along the perfect bow of her upper lip. “Oh, I have to all right.” Then she leans forward to press a kiss against the tip of my very hard, very aroused dick. “I really, really do.”

I groan, my hands fisting in her hair. It’s all the invitation she needs as she pulls me inside her mouth, runs her tongue along the underside of my cock. For the first time in my life, my knees are the ones that shake.

Chapter 13

Emerson

I shouldn’t be doing this. I absolutely shouldn’t be doing this.

Yet I am, and the truth is I don’t give a damn about all the reasons this is a bad idea, even though there are a lot of them.

One, Hunter is a client and the last thing I need is to get the reputation for fucking my high-end clients. Two, Kerry is just looking for a reason to fire me and this is me serving up that reason to her on a silver platter. Three, I may want Hunter more than I’ve wanted any man in my life—and he may have just given me the most amazing orgasm ever—but I don’t really know him. More, I may never get the chance to know him. He’s a professional football player, for God’s sake. He probably does this several times a week. The fact that I don’t, that this is pretty unusual behavior for me, should be the biggest of the huge warning signs against this.

And yet, it isn’t. Because the truth is, I don’t give a damn. Not about this job I’m probably going to lose and definitely not about what Kerry thinks of me. I’ve never wanted any man as much as I want Hunter right now and I’m going to take him. Even if—especially if—this is my only chance to ever have him.

Doing this is stupid, I know it with every fiber of my being. Bad for my job, bad for my future, and—crazy as it sounds—I’m beginning to fear it’s also bad for my heart. But how can I not give him this after seeing the vulnerability in his eyes? After feeling it in the way he holds me, touches me, kisses me? He’s a world famous athlete, yet he’s the first man who has ever touched me for no other reason than to give me pleasure, the first man I’ve ever been with who isn’t just out for himself.

I want to give that back to him, want to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel. Want to get him outside of his head for a while, outside of that darkness I see reflected in his eyes. I don’t know what put the darkness there, but I do know that I want to chase it away, for at least a little while.

And so I suck him deeper still, scratching my nails over the flat, muscled plane of his abdomen. Down his perfectly defined V-cut. Along the light happy trail that leads from his navel to his groin. He’s beautiful, so fucking beautiful. His skin golden, his hair soft and silky, his muscles lean and defined and strong, so strong.

I want to touch him everywhere, to kiss him everywhere. He’s like my own personal playground right here in front of me, and I want to take my time, want to savor him, want to taste and touch him everywhere. But we are in the middle of someone’s backyard—someone who might come home anytime now—and no matter what taste they have in sculptures and sex, I’m pretty sure they won’t appreciate the sight of San Diego’s quarterback getting off in their garden. So instead of taking my time, instead of doing every single one of the dirty things running through my mind at the moment, I settle on letting him slip out of my mouth so I can press hot, openmouthed kisses on first one hip and then the other. And if I long for more, if I long for everything, well then, nobody has to know that but me.

Hunter groans, his hands fisting in my hair as I push his T-shirt up and out of the way so that I can see, touch, taste, more of him.

I skim my way across his stomach, kissing every inch of exposed skin I can get my lips on. But then the shirt falls down, covering him up again and I make a sound of frustration deep in my throat. If this is the only chance I’ll ever have to explore him, I’m damn well going to get a look at as much of him as I can.

He must recognize the source of my frustration—or maybe he just wants the shirt gone as much as I do. Either way, it only takes a second for Hunter to rip the offending garment over his head and drop it on the ground next to my torn panties. As he does, the muscles of his chest and stomach flex and bunch. And suddenly, it’s all I can do to keep my tongue in my mouth.

Because, dear God, the man is sporting the first ten pack I’ve ever had my hands on. Hell, it’s the only ten pack I’ve ever seen, period. Sure, I’ve seen the ads with him—he has a lot of endorsement deals and he has to take his shirt off for some of them—but I’d always assumed his unbelievable body was photoshopped like everyone else’s. It’s never occurred to me, even for a second, that when he poses in his Calvins, all those beautiful muscles are really his. I knew quarterbacks were ripped, knew they had to use all these glorious core muscles to throw the ball and dodge opponents bent on destroying them. But knowing that and seeing it up close and personal—as up close and personal as it gets—are two different stories.

My mouth waters with the need to taste him, and so I do, petting his chest and stomach and hips even as I lick my way up the center of his torso as far as I can reach while on my knees. He groans a little, his hand cupping the back of my head to hold me to him as I kiss and lick and suck my way back down his stomach and abdomen to his cock. I pause right below his navel, suck a small, round bruise into the skin to the left of his happy trail. Then lick my way over and around it a few times, relishing the way his muscles jump and flex under my tongue.

He smells so good, tastes so good—like orange and bergamot and dark, hot sex. I want to roll around in his scent, to pull it over me like a blanket. To wrap it, and him, around myself for long, lust-filled nights.

But I don’t have nights, don’t have anything but this one, sun-drenched afternoon and I am determined to take advantage of it—and the freedom I have to touch him, to taste him, to take him. To let him take me.

And so I kiss my way over to his cock, then pause, my mouth hovering inches above his tip. He’s big, long and thick and heavily aroused, and I’m pretty sure if I press his dick against his abdomen, the tip would stretch past his belly button.

He’s an arousing sight, no doubt about that, but I’m not sure I can take all of him—in my mouth or my body. So instead of swallowing him down as I long to do, I choose instead to kiss just the very tip before pulling the head into my mouth and licking around and around it, my tongue flat and firm against the sensitive crown.

He shivers, his back arching a little in a desperate bid for more. He looks hot, so hot, his eyes hyper focused and electric green as he puts a little pressure on my head in an attempt to urge me closer. To get me to take more of him—and to give him more of myself in return.