Harmony and High Heels (Fort Worth Wranglers 2)

unzipped her jeans, then roughly yanked them—and her panties—down her legs and off. She didn’t protest and she didn’t cover herself, not when he was giving her exactly what she wanted. Exactly what she needed.

He groaned a little as he dropped the jeans to the floor, then he picked up more strawberries and once again crushed them in his palm, allowing the juice to drip over her abdomen, down to her mons and between her thighs. The contrast of the ice-cold strawberry juice and Dalton’s warm mouth had her writhing in seconds, begging for him to finish the game.

He wasn’t willing to be rushed, however, and he took his time teasing her with little flicks of his tongue over her breasts, down her belly, over her sex. He followed these with more demanding nips and with tugs on her nipple rings that had her blood boiling and her hands fisting in his hair.

“Come on,” she whimpered as she tried to pull him over her. “Do it already.”

His laugh was low and taunting. “Baby, I’m just getting started. There won’t be anything to do for quite a while.”

And then he set about teasing her, giving her no more time to talk or plead or even think. She could only feel, only revel in the sensations of unbelievable pleasure the feel of the strawberries and Dalton’s tongue brought to her.

He leaned over her on the table, so that he was touching her in one long line from her shoulders to her toes. The roughness of his jeans scraped against the tender skin of her stomach and outer thigh, but she relished the contact. Embraced the burn that he was so carefully stoking inside of her.

Raising himself up on one elbow, he picked up the loaded spoon from the whipped cream bowl and held it suspended over her. He didn’t move, didn’t flick it over her, didn’t do anything until he was sure he had her complete and total attention.

Pushing up on her elbows, she looked at him warily. “What are you going to do with that?” she asked.

He grinned and it was a scandalous, shameless thing. Her heart beat faster and then she was arching, her head falling back as he dropped the cool cream onto her lower abdomen.

“Dalton.” It was a squeal. A protest. An invitation for him to do whatever he wanted. For him to do everything he wanted.

“Do you know,” he whispered as he dipped one finger into the mound of whipped cream. “I always loved finger painting as a child.”

“Finger painting?” She could barely form the words, all of her energy focused on the calloused finger currently drawing figure eights on her stomach.

“Yes. I loved to make designs with the paint, to create something beautiful where only chaos had been.” His finger dipped lower, across her mons and down, until he was painting her pussy with the whipped cream. Circling her clit with it and then moving down to rub the sweet stuff over her labia.

“Of course, you’re already so beautiful it makes my head spin,” he murmured as he applied more and more cream to her aching sex. “But there’s something to be said for making a little treat for myself, isn’t there?”

She whimpered—the only sound she could make, as rationale speech was suddenly beyond her.

“Isn’t there, Harmony?” His finger dipped inside of her, once, twice, and she nearly came from the contrast of hot and cold against the walls of her vagina. His burning-hot finger covered in the cold whipped cream was taking her higher than she’d ever been before. He was scrambling her brain, making her crazy, and she was loving every second of it.

“Harmony?” he murmured again, delving a little deeper with his cream-covered finger. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” she whispered through dry lips, not knowing—and not caring—what she was agreeing to. All that she had, all that she was, was focused on this man and the wicked, wonderful things he was doing to her body. Things she’d never been willing to let another man do to her. Things that made her vulnerable and more than a little weak.

And then he was leaning down, his tongue licking the cream from her stomach like she was a piece of fine china. He traced patterns on her quivering stomach, and whatever limited thoughts she’d managed to string together dried up and she could think no more. Only feel.

She moaned, a soft, breathless sigh that seemed to snap his control. And he was on her, his body covering hers, his shoulders flexing as he trailed hot, moist kisses down her body. He followed the trail he’d painted with the whipped cream, his talented tongue doing things to her that she had only read about before. He was everywhere, and as his tongue thrust inside of her, she lost the last remnants of control she’d been clinging to so desperately.

Her elbows went out from under her, and she sank back onto the table—collapsed really—and let him have his wicked, wicked way with her.

And what a way it was. He played her like a finely tuned instrument, loved her in those moments like she was the only woman he’d ever had. He was endlessly curious, unbelievably giving, and just a little bit kinky as his mouth brought her to one whipped cream orgasm after another. And through it all, he continued to explore her body, taking the time to learn what she liked, what she loved, and what drove her absolutely insane.

She was beginning to think everything about this man was going to drive her insane.

He licked her in long strokes, again and again, like she was the sweetest ice cream he’d ever tasted and he could never get enough. His tongue explored every crease, lingered for long minutes at her clit until she was clawing the table in search of relief.

But there was none, only more of the torturous pleasure that went on and on. His thumb pressed against her from behind, entering her at the same time his tongue thrust inside her pussy like a spear.

She screamed, bucked frantically against him, rode the orgasm out as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. And still he wasn’t done—his face was buried between her thighs, his lips and tongue and breath coming at her again and again until sanity was only an abstract concept. Until the world around her ceased to exist and Dalton was the only steady thing in it.

She was going beyond individual orgasms to a place where the overwhelming pleasure went on and on and on. She twisted desperately, tugged at his shoulders, begged for him to end the torture with the satisfaction of his thick cock within her. But he only laughed and continued to push her and push her until she was sobbing, mindless, an animal driven by the sweet, hot edge of pleasure-pain and the promise of completion.

Her body was no longer her own. It was under his complete control, enthralled, desperate, dying. In those moments she would have followed him anywhere, done anything, been anyone he wanted her to be. It was a scary thought, considering how she’d spent so much of her life hiding her true self, but the fear was mitigated by the fact that he only wanted to bring her joy—incredible, mind-boggling joy. And that was the biggest turn-on of them all.

Dalton spiked his tongue, boggled her brain, as he swirled it inside her before pulling out and going for her clit again. As he did, another wave snuck up on her, slammed through her, and she knew she couldn’t take any more. She pushed him away and into the discarded breakfast chair. Then dropped to her knees in front of him, unzipped his pants, and took his glorious, incredibly hot cock in her mouth.