Avery lowered to her knees and got aggressive with his boxers.
“Baby . . .” He was panting now. “My dad . . .”
She stroked his wet length with her hand, licking her lips in anticipation of getting him back in her mouth. “He’ll be sleeping for the next twelve hours.” She grinned and flicked a hot look up at him. He loved it when she looked at him while she sucked him. “Imagine what I could do to you in twelve hours.”
“Hell. You’re not playing fair.”
“Seems extremely fair to me.” And she took him into her mouth again. He tensed, his hands tightened in her hair, stinging her scalp. She slipped her free hand to the base of his cock, then lower, cupping his balls.
“Ah, God, Avery . . .” He gripped the counter with one hand. “Fuck. I didn’t teach you that.”
She started laughing and had to draw him from her mouth. She was laughing so hard she pressed her forehead to his hip and curled her hand in his jeans. He combed his hands through her hair, and when she finally stopped laughing and looked up at him, the grin on his face and the sparkle in his eyes looked a lot like love to Avery. It might have been a long time since she’d seen that look, but she’d known it a very long time ago.
Her own heart lurched in response, but like a tiger in a cage, lunging for raw meat outside the bars, Avery couldn’t quite get to the same place. She could see it. She could want it. But there were barriers to escape and dangerous ground to cover before she could get there. And she didn’t feel quite equipped for that journey.
At least not yet.
“Are you saying you don’t think I can’t be innovative on my own?” She stroked one finger from the tip of his cock to the base, then drew circles on the very tip with her tongue until he moaned and rocked his hips forward. “Because I’m ready to prove you wrong, Mr. Hutton.”
He framed her face with both hands and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. The soft look in his eyes was laced with heat that Avery wanted to turn into an inferno.
“Mr. Hutton.” He grinned. “Next thing I know you’ll be calling me sir.”
She didn’t know if she’d go that far, but two weeks ago she certainly hadn’t believed she’d be on her knees in Trace Hutton’s kitchen either. She lifted her brows and playfully planted kisses down the length of his cock. “Stranger things have happened, am I right?”
Avery didn’t wait for his answer. She was tired of talking, and in her opinion, they communicated just fine in bed without a word . . . although his words in bed were nice, too.
She turned off her mind, set aside all her worries, and allowed both her and Trace this time for themselves. But she didn’t get a chance to dive in. Trace bent, grabbed her by the waist, and lifted her against him.
Avery automatically wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips, and murmured, “God, I love the way you do that,” before meeting his hungry kiss.
Trace carried her toward the bedroom and had her shirt over her head and her jeans unfastened before he even laid her on the bed. He pulled her pants free of her legs with one hard jerk, then stood there and stared with a hot, pleased-with-himself grin as he let her jeans slide from his fingers and crumple on the floor.
Avery was about to sit up and strip him when he put a hand out. “Don’t move. You’re almost perfect.”
She lifted her brows. “Almost?”
“Take your hair down.”
That voice of his and the way he could both ask for something and order it at the same time, all while making you think it was your idea, turned her inside out in a way she’d never dreamed possible.
She reached for her clip while his gaze raked down her body, and he swept his shirt off over his head in a split second. As she shook her hair loose, he pushed his jeans down his legs and came over her on hands and knees.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He lowered to one forearm, combed his hand through her hair, and dropped a sweet kiss to her lips. And the way he pulled back to scour her face while the backs of his fingers traced her cheek made her feel precious and gorgeous and self-conscious all at the same time.
Avery pressed her hands to his shoulders but had to put real effort into rolling him to his back. When he gripped her hips and lifted into her, rubbing his hot cock against her slick sex, she almost forgot why she’d flipped him in the first place.
“Talk about an addiction,” he rasped with his hands sliding over her hips, her waist, pausing to cup and squeeze her breasts. “Baby, you are the worst kind.”
Addiction. Now she remembered. “I was just thinking that about you”—she pushed up on her kne
es, scooted down his legs, and settled back down with his cock in lickable range—“on my knees in the kitchen.”
She closed her mouth around the head of his cock and sucked while circling with her tongue and moaning with the pleasure of having him back in her mouth.
“Ho-oly fu—” His hips bucked, one hand gripping her head and the other fisted in the comforter.
The rush that his pleasure whipped through her was far more potentially addictive than any substance she’d ever experienced. And that reaction was one she’d never gotten before either. So she combined the sucking, licking, humming trio again, thrilled when she had the infamous Trace Hutton writhing on the sheets.