Hung
But she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t run. Her mouth locks on mine, her tongue retreating to tease my lower lip with a light stroke that’s nowhere near enough. And Christ, when her fingers seek the back of my neck, tracing a little up and down pattern across my bare skin, it’s game over.
Being kissed by Sarah Jo is so much better than anything I’ve imagined—and I have a great imagination. While her tongue explores my mouth with the enthusiasm of an orchestra racing toward the crescendo of a really awesome symphony, I kiss her back as much as she allows. I’m not just gonna be the audience on this kiss—after all, we’ve already got one. I’m dimly aware of raucous background noise as my fellow Rogues whoop and holler. Pretty sure even the kitchen staff is getting into it, laughing and waving the verbal pom-poms for us. As if I could stop this kiss. As if I’d want to. Mostly, though, I’m aware of the woman in my arms and the sweet scent of her pressed against me. Whether it’s shampoo or perfume, or some secret female thing, she smells damned good.
When she pulls back, her lips pink and swollen, and tries to dance away from me, I hold on tight. That mischievous smile of hers tugs at the corner of her mouth.
Too bad for her I’m not done with her yet.
Tossing the tray away, I scoop her closer with one arm. “Honey, I’m definitely wanting seconds today.”
Sarah Jo
Pick threads big hands through my hair, holding me in place for his next kiss. He’s either forgotten about or doesn’t mind our avid audience, because his mouth covers mine in a take-no-prisoners kiss. He pulls me into his body, a body that’s every bit as hard and muscled as I’ve fantasized—and I’ve done more fantasizing than is good for me. It’s hard not to notice how strong Pick is, from the muscled forearms I’m clutching like a sexual lifeline to the way his shoulders stretch the cotton of his T-shirt. Everything about him shouts that he’s got your back, that you’re safe from everything and everyone. My inner cave girl squees with delight—she’s not totally on board with my no man—stand on my own feet plan.
When Pick kisses me again, the rest of me rejects the plan, too. God, he’s gorgeous. He’s got brown hair that’s just long enough for me to run my fingers through, but not quite long enough to hold onto. Pick’s the kind of fantasy man who slips through your life, your arms, your dreams. But the way he grins… his whole smile lights up his face and you just have to like him. He’s built like an ox—or a stallion. A really big, really hung stallion. This man is Grade A, panty-melting male.
The firm press of his lips follows that full-body caress and then his teeth nip my lower lip with a sweetly erotic sting. When I gasp, he sweeps inside like he belongs there and he’s just been waiting for me to open up and hang out the welcome sign.
The whole gosh-darn fire camp could burn down around us now. I don’t care—screw fire safety. I want more of this. More Pick. More kissing. As first kisses go, this one is amazing and it’s going to be the crown jewel of my collection. His tongue strokes mine, mapping my mouth with slow, deliberate thoroughness and leaving behind a wicked burn of pleasure. Hell, the man kisses as if he’s the one in charge, and the heated arousal building low in my belly warns me that my body, at least, has zero complaints about the change in management because Pick is one hell of a kisser. Sliding my hands up over his arms, I hang on to his broad shoulders like some kind of sex-crazed kudzu vine as he deepens the kiss further.
This attraction exploding between us is a five-alarm blaze. Pick doesn’t pull his punches—he just goes all out as he devours the mouth I’ve offered him in lieu of pancakes. I’ve tossed a lit match into dry grass, and now we’re both on fire. His mouth moves expertly over mine as he plays a game of show-and-tell about how he’s feeling. Hungry. Possessive.
Unlike my city dates, who sport expensive colognes, Pick smells of smoke and pine, a woodsy, outdoor scent as wild and rugged as the man himself. He’s every lumberjack fantasy come to life, and he needs his very own warning label: smoking hot fireman… danger of smoke inhalation. Because when I breathe in, he just works his way deeper inside me. He’s big, he’s rough, and yet he’s impossibly careful in the way he holds me. This is no he-man clinch. I’m not bent over backward like a movie poster heroine. He wraps his enormous arms around me and holds me close while his mouth works wicked, dirty magic on the rest of me. The chest beneath his ash-smudged white T-shirt is as hard and unyielding as the muscled thighs pressed against mine, but I’ve already figured out for myself that there’s not an ounce of give in Pick.