Staged (Exodus End 3)

Roux tugged his shirt up his belly, and Steve leaned back to help her draw it over his head. She leaned forward to pepper his chest with kisses, her hands fumbling with her leggings as she slid them off over her butt; she kicked them, her flat shoes, and panties aside. Holy hell. Once she made up her mind, she was all in. She pressed her hands against his shoulders.

“I want your mouth on me,” she said.

“We both want that,” he said, sinking to his knees and lifting her leg to rest on his shoulder.

His mouth watered at the smell of her sex; his balls tightened in response to her heat. He parted his lips to draw her clean-shaven pussy into his mouth, his tongue prepared to work her swollen clit. The floor dipped beneath him, and he grabbed her ass with one hand and the countertop with his other to steady them.

The intercom crackled, and Jordan’s sultry, accented voice said, “We’ve hit some nasty turbulence. Buckle up and prepare for a bumpy ride for the next thirty minutes or so.”

Steve was prepared to ignore the warning, but Roux was struggling to free herself from his grasp. She launched herself into her seat and fumbled with her seat belt, gorgeous eyes wide, fair complexion downright ghostly. Steve ran a hand over his face, trying to find the strength to climb to his feet.

The plane dipped again, and Roux whimpered. “Come put on your seat belt,” she said, grasping both armrests with a white-knuckled grip. “And bring my pants.”

He grinned. He’d been on enough flights that turbulence didn’t bother him much. “Come get them,” he said.

“Don’t be a dick. I’m half naked here.”

“I can fix that.” He crawled over to her seat, grateful for the immense amount of legroom in the luxury jet. Kneeling between her feet, he pulled her top off over her head and, before she could gather her wits enough to stop him, removed her bra as well.

“Now you’re all naked,” he said.

Every inch of her was perfection, especially the unique nuances of her flesh that most would label imperfections. He planned to get to know every part of her exterior intimately—from the round, puckered scar between her luscious breasts to the large flat mole on her hip to the pale blue paths of the vessels just beneath her fair skin—before he delved into her interior. He was especially enjoying the critical glare in her gold and green eyes as she raised an eyebrow.

“And how will the rescue crew who scrapes me off the ground after we crash explain my nakedness?”

“We aren’t going to crash.” He leaned forward and drew the tip of his tongue over her nipple.

“Steve, I’m not in the mood anymore.”

He grinned. “I can fix that too.”

His leisurely lick shifted to a powerful suction and there was no mistaking her gasp of excitement. Easy fix. He kissed his way to the scar made by the tragedy that had almost ended her and rested his lips there gently. He’d wanted to press his lips to that very spot since the moment she’d revealed her past, but now that he’d made that desire a reality, he had a hard time coming to terms with the sudden knot in his throat. To think someone who was supposed to love this treasure of a woman unconditionally had scarred her so severely—inside and out—had him pressing his forehead to the center of her chest and breathing through the tangle of emotion he was starting to relish. God, it had been so long since he’d allowed himself to feel like this. To care so much about a woman. It had been too long. And it might end up being much longer because he knew how severely it hurt when someone you loved with your entirety tore your fucking heart out.

Whoa. Step back. He hadn’t even fucked Roux yet, and his emotions were bouncing around like a drop of sweat on a drum skin. He, Steve the Callous, was entertaining thoughts of love. Was he ready to take a chance? A chance with this woman he scarcely knew but felt he’d always known? Would he be able to let Roux in, the way he’d let Bianca in? Let her see all of him? Not just the cool parts that he showed the world, but also the lame parts, the twisted parts, the gentle parts, and even the vulnerable parts. He’d soon know if she was worth his confidence, his utter devotion, and the potential heartache, because he’d never learned to love any other way. He was an all or nothing sort of guy, and he knew it. The realization scared the shit out of him.

“Did you fall asleep?” she murmured.

Fuck. How long had he been resting there thinking? Feeling? Why was he so crazy about her?

“God, I’m crazy about you.”

What? No. Don’t say thoughts like that out loud. Why would he say such a stupid thing? Thinking it was bad enough. He lifted his head and met her eyes, part of him wanting her to freak out and tell him to leave her alone, most of him hoping, praying, that she returned his feelings. Even a little.

“Is that why you’re making out with my scar instead of eating me out?”

Her delectable lips twisted into a sexually charged grin, and the answering surge of lust that flooded his groin made him light-headed.

“So you’re up for a little oral?”

A smoldering look darkened her eyes. “If you’re good at it”—her tongue wet her lips—“I’m up for a lot of oral.”

If he was good at it. If.

He hesitated, realizing she was leading him by the nose, and wondering why the fuck it turned him on so much. If he was good at it. He’d show her if. He’d make her come so fast and so hard, he’d be wearing her cum as a beard. If he was good at it. Please.

He swallowed and glanced down to her slightly parted thighs and bit his lip.

He hoped he was as good as past lovers claimed. He never could tell when a woman was inflating his ego or telling him the truth. What if every woman he’d ever touched had faked getting off?

Nah. Not possible.

Besides, why was he worried about that now? Maybe because he wanted Roux to be up for a lot of oral, not just a little. He trailed his hands up her silky bare legs, starting at her ankles, up a pair of shapely calves, behind her knees.

The plane dipped suddenly, and she gasped, fingers clutching at the armrests. “Maybe you should put on your seat belt,” she said.

Or maybe he should create his own turbulence. His fingertips skimmed her outer thighs, down the fronts, up the sides again. On the downward stroke, he shifted a bit closer to her center, back up the outsides, an inch closer to her inner thighs on the next downward pass. He could just yank her legs apart and get down to feasting—he doubted she’d resist—but he wanted her to open for him. He wanted her to ask for his touch. He wanted her to beg for release. As his fingers slid down the center of her thighs, her legs parted, and it took every shred of willpower within him to hold her gaze as he continued to stroke her smooth legs rather than stare at the heated flesh now revealed to him. He turned his hands so that the backs of his knuckles grazed the outsides of her thighs, stroking upward to the crest of her hipbones now, hands turning down there to trace the sexy V that outlined her sex. A gasp escaped her, and her eyes drifted closed. She was probably expecting him to shift his fingers to her cleft, but he followed the inner crease at the apex of her inner thighs and then slowly skimmed all eight fingers down the insides of her thighs.

“Aimes,” she moaned, her back arching.

“That’s not my name.”

Her eyelids opened, that familiar spark of fire simmering in their depths, but he repeated the same gentle motion on her now-trembling thighs, and her eyes drifted closed again.

“Steve.”