Skin Tight (Skin Deep #4)

It was late, almost one a.m., and we were just getting home from the party, which was a laugh riot as Nanny made Ian keep his word (even though he really didn’t intend to go swimming) and get in the water with her. And yes, she really wore a bikini. The woman had no shame.

And, of course, my Mom had brought out pitchers of her kickass sangria as the party wore on, so I was more than a little tipsy, as was much of my family. Yeah, so it was pretty much all of the female members of my family, and Allie’s, but we were all pretty lucky in that we had hot-as-sin men that didn’t mind taking care of us. The only one left unattached was my brother, Calland, and we pretty much disparaged any woman ever being able to calm him down.

Which brings me back to the moment, me on my back, fully clothed, and giggling uncontrollably, while Ian stood across the room, carelessly stripping his clothes off.

“I like it when you get naked,” I said, my eyes drinking in every inch of him as it was revealed to me.

“You do, huh?” he asked, a small grin quirking up one corner of his luscious mouth.

I nodded sagely, rolling carelessly to my stomach and then pushing up until I was sitting on my knees in the middle of our decadent, king-size bed.

Without a word, I reached for the hem of my tee and pulled it up and over my head, leaving me in my bra, short denim shorts, and, strangely, my flip flops that miraculously had stayed on my feet.

Ian raised a brow at me and his smile grew, his eyes darkening as he took in my breasts spilling over the lacy cups of my bra. I smiled back and hooked my fingers into the waistband of my shorts, flopping (ungracefully) to the side before I dragged them and my panties down my legs and kicked them off, along with my flip flops.

I cringed and then laughed as they went flying and Ian had to duck to avoid being hit in the face. He cocked his head at me and bared his teeth in a grin I could only describe as predatory before he started stalking to the bed.

I scrambled up as quickly as my tipsy-self could, warding him off by waving my hands, not even realizing that I was mumbling, “No, no, no, no, no,” under my breath until he started nodding his head in response.

“Ian,” I whined, sticking my bottom lip out in a pout that I could only hope was sexy and cute. “I wanted to give you tipsy-crazy-drunk sex!”

“You will,” he replied, still advancing. By this time, his knee was on the bed and he was moving close to where I’d plastered myself against the headboard.

“But I wanted to be in charge,” I continued, still pouting, but ruining the effect with a giggle.

“Nu-uh,” was all I got in response.

But then I didn’t care anymore as his hand reached out and curled around my neck, pulling me forward against his chest as his mouth took mine in a hard kiss, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with mine.

I groaned as he nipped at my bottom lip and then laved the sting with his tongue, all the while his hands were moving, pulling me closer into his body. I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my belly, a searing heat that made me arch into him, whimpering for more.

We were chest to chest, both kneeling at the head of the bed and my head was swimming with a heady combination of alcohol and lust, pushing me over the edge of reason.

Breaking the kiss, I breathed, “Fuck me, Ian.”

He growled low in his throat and shifted. I found myself face down on the bed, while Ian jerked my hips up, his knees spreading my thighs wide, the hot, thick length of him sliding through my wetness before he notched himself into my drenched opening, slamming deep with one thrust.

I twisted my hands into the comforter and arched my back, tipping my hips up as Ian fucked me hard, a keening cry being wrenched from my lips as the heavy slap of his balls against my clit and the fast, pounding thrusts of his cock brought me to the edge of release almost immediately.

He gave no mercy and I loved it, but he took it even further when he growled, “Up,” and pulled me up so I was on my hands and knees. He rode me faster and harder then, slamming into me over and over again, sending me screaming over the edge when he fisted his hand in my hair and jerked my head back firmly but gently, ordering, “Come on my cock, baby. Now.”

I came and I came hard, then rushed headlong into another orgasm as he thrust deep and stayed buried inside me, grinding into me as he found his release.

We stayed like that for a minute, Ian still throbbing inside me, my sex still pulsing around him, until he, at least, caught his breath enough to move. I felt him leave the bed as I collapsed, face first once more, onto the bed, still fighting to catch my breath.

He was back shortly and I sighed as a warm, wet washcloth dipped between my thighs, tenderly cleaning away the evidence of our lovemaking.

I smiled to myself as I felt his lips brush the back of my thigh before he was gone to the bathroom. It seemed like in no time, he was back and gently moving us beneath the covers, snuggling in with me.

“Love you, baby,” I murmured, settling against him and yawning as sleep dragged me down.

But I was awake enough to smile softly against his chest when he whispered, “Love you more,” against my forehead.

My eyes cracked open, squinting against the sun peeking through the curtains and shining directly on my face. I stretched and yawned, then rolled over to cuddle closer to Ian.

An invisible Ian, apparently, because the bed beside me was empty. I threw off the comforter and got one leg off the bed before the bedroom door swung open and Ian filled the doorway.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Mornin’,” I mumbled back.

“Don’t leave the bed, baby. I made you breakfast,” Ian said, moving into the room.

I finally noticed the tray (not really a tray…it was a cookie sheet) in his hands and swiftly tucked myself back into the bed, pulling the covers up and leaning against the headboard. Of course, then my bladder started screaming, so I threw the covers off and scrambled off the bed, throwing a hurried, “Wait a sec, gotta pee!” over my shoulder as I ran for the bathroom.

His low chuckle followed me through the room.

In a flash, I was back on the bed, tray in my lap, with Ian lounging at my side. I bit into a perfectly cooked, crispy piece of bacon and moaned.

“You’re so good to me, you know that?” I asked him once I’d chewed and swallowed.

He didn’t reply, but he did curve his hand over my thigh just below the tray, squeezing lightly.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked after a minute.

I paused in devouring the plate of cheesy, fluffy scrambled eggs and toast that he’d made to accompany my bacon to answer. “I’m good. You know I don’t get hungover,” I said, scooping another bite into my mouth.

“Yeah, I know, but you also don’t usually down six glasses of your Mom’s sangria,” he said with a grin.

“Six? I thought I finished the pitcher!” I said, laughing.

He shook his head at me, fondly, as he replied, “You did. That was your sixth glass.”

I finished eating and he took the tray from me, leaning over the side of the bed to place it on the floor, before rolling back into me and pulling me beneath him.

“What are you doing?” I asked softly, reaching up and winding my arms around his neck.

He dipped his head and nibbled my throat. I sighed and pressed my head back into the pillow to give him better access, then groaned in protest when he lifted his head.