Muffin Top
“I knew you were full of it about that.” She added pot-stirrer to total flirt under her mental list of Frankie’s attributes.
“Couldn’t help it. You’re fucking hot when you’re riled up.” He toyed with the hem of her skirt and dipped his head low for another kiss that was as mind melting as it was quick. “And speaking of hot, I want to slide my hand underneath here and feel how slick you are right now because you are so wet, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” It was moaned more than spoken, but it was so very, very true.
“Spread your legs.”
She did without even thinking about it. That time was so far past. All she could do was feel and want. Tomorrow, she’d probably be embarrassed about this, once she had time to think about how all of Frankie’s words were probably born of a collective pent-up desperation, not an individual desire for her. Tonight, however, she was going to give in to the lust streaming through her and find relief for the ache building in her core.
“Fuck, I love the feel of you.” His hand spanned the expanse of her thigh as he slid his palm upward under her skirt until his thumb grazed the damp center of her panties.
She arched her hips, needing more than just the soft brush of his touch, and he let out a strangled groan. It wasn’t enough. She needed to feel more, to feel him. Instead, he was circling her clit with his thumb over her panties. Unwinding her hands from around his neck, she reached under her skirt to get rid of the damn things.
He stopped with his thumb the moment her hands went under her skirt. “Be patient.”
“I don’t want to be.” Her, whine? In this situation? Oh fuck yes. She was half a breath away from begging.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice as rough as his touch was gentle.
Everything. Now. “To come.”
“Now? This second?” He nipped her bottom lip, drawing it taut before kissing it better. “Or do you want to go slow.” He circled her panty-covered clit with a butterfly-soft touch. “Build it up.” He picked up the pace but kept his touch agonizingly light. “Stoke the flames until you can’t take it for another moment and you come so hard you can’t see.”
God. When he put it like that, what choice did she have? Especially when he was looking at her with barely checked control and heat. It was almost as if he really did want her and not just any woman. It was in that moment she decided that Frankie Hartigan deserved every single bit of his reputation as the best sex in Waterbury, and she hadn’t even seen his dick. But oh, she would.
She brought her hand out from under her skirt, cupped his jaw, the bristles of his day’s growth of beard tickling her palm, and kissed him.
It was so much sensation, the feel of his lips on her mouth, the sweep of his tongue across her lips before he deepened the kiss. Then he moved his thumb again in agonizing, slow turns about her clit, stopping every time she got close. That’s when he’d talk as he kissed his way across her exposed cleavage. Over and over the cycle repeated. He’d bring her right to the edge, so close the tingling sensations were shooting up her thighs, and then he’d pull back. The world could have exploded outside of the living room and she wouldn’t have been able to notice.
Everything had narrowed until it was just the two of them—both still fully dressed—on the love seat, his hand up her skirt, his thumb rubbing her through her wet panties as she went higher and higher and—
He stopped. “So close, wasn’t that?”
“You’re killing me.” And she just might kill him.
His all-too-knowing chuckle tickled her skin as they lay on the couch, totally wrapped up in each other. “But you’re so wet now. You’ve soaked through all that lace and cotton. You want to come so bad, don’t you?”
“Please.” Oh yes, she was begging and she didn’t care.
He started again, deliberate circles that made her entire body ache for release. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?”
“Lately?” She arched her hips, trying to increase the pressure of his touch. “You.”
He rewarded her by pressing harder against her clit, not enough to come, but enough to make her body rejoice.
He shifted so he was lower on the couch and dipped his head to kiss along the V-neckline of her tank top before moving down to her nipple pressing against the thin material. Offering up a silent thank-you to the universe that she thought to put on the one sexy bra she’d packed after her shower. It was crap for actual support, and the straps bit down into her shoulders, but it was made of the prettiest unlined lace, which meant the heat of his mouth and the rough feel of his teeth went straight through the thin cotton of her tank top and the lace of her bra to her sensitive nipple. She shivered against the onslaught. It was absolute, blissful torture, and she wanted more—something Frankie must have sensed, because the evil man stopped. The wet cotton and lace only seemed to highlight the absence of his touch more.