No Saint (Wild Men 6)

About a piercing down there. Just the thought makes me throb between my legs, and heats up my blood, so that I kiss him harder, burying my fingers in the silky hair at the back of his neck, giving back as good as I get, moaning at the rasp of his tongue aggressively thrusting against mine.

He feels amazing underneath me, his arms around me, his hardness between my legs, and I want more. My body is writhing with need, with pleasure. He’s all firm lines and angles, fitting so perfectly, pressed on me.

Never felt like this before, never been so out of control. I didn’t think I could get so crazed with lust for someone but here I am, going out of my mind with need, every last thought flown clear out of my head. We’re rocking together, mindlessly rutting, and the clothes are in the way, frustrating barriers. I want to tear them off him, touch every part of him, follow his tattoos up his chest and down his arms, trace that terrible scar all the way up, find where it stops. How deep it goes. Listen to his heart and make sure it’s untouched, beating strongly in his chest.

I draw back, these new thoughts slamming into me, distracting me, making me frown.

Because they go beyond lust, deeper and wider, curiosity mingling with concern and a strange, unexpected affection that has no business being there.

Ross growls something under his breath and attacks my neck with his mouth, rough tongue, soft lips and teeth, nipping and kissing and sucking, stopping my thoughts once more.

And then he takes matters out of my hands, quite literally, when he pushes my skirt up my hips and dips his fingers inside my panties, all the while cupping the back of my head, keeping me close as he licks and kisses the sensitive skin beneath my ear.

My head’s spinning. I press up against those questing fingers, torn apart by sensation—his lips on my neck, the rough pads of his fingers sliding between my spread legs, rubbing over my clit, has to be my clit because pleasure sparkles through me, making me gasp and buck.

“Pretty,” he whispers, lifting his head and pulling me close, putting his mouth once more over mine—just as his fingers push into me, stunning me into a cry. The sound is lost against his lips, with his tongue working mine, until I’m assaulted with sensation on every side, battered down.

His fingers, though... inside me. That’s the center of my existence right now, the crux of the universe, the very center of me being filled, slowly, completely as he pushes them deeper, spreading them.

Then drags them slowly out, to the fingertips, before shoving them back inside. Driving me insane. Sending the pressure coiling and mounting until I’m clutching his shoulders, moaning, my eyes closing. As he fucks my mouth with his tongue and my pussy with those rough, big fingers, ratcheting up the need, the absolute urgency to come.

I’m riding his fingers now, lost in my body’s demands, this unbelievable feeling of being filled up and pleasured, every touch of his mouth, tongue and fingers adding up, piling up, pushing the barrier higher until the pressure breaks and I shatter, all but screaming into the kiss as I come.

Oh crap. Holy shit. I’ve never had anyone do this to me, and the one hook-up I had last year never went beyond drunkenly fumbling with our clothes and ending up with me realizing I didn’t want it and leaving. But touching myself was never like this, and I just never...

Never thought it could be this good with a boy, especially not this one. No matter how sexy and handsome he is, and he’s plenty of both. I never saw myself sitting with him, let alone on his lap, letting him—no, needing him to touch me and do bad things to me.

The sort of bad things that I like.

And as I come down from my high, trying to catch my breath, I have a moment of disorientation. Is this really me, sitting on Ross Jones’s lap, his eyes hooded and lazy with lust as he watches me. Plus, his fingers are still inside me.

Inside me, holy shit.

I shiver when he slowly pulls his hand out of my panties and licks his fingers. I watch him do it, fascinated—and then I’m hit with a wave of embarrassment so big I almost self-combust. The urge to flee smashes into me like a brick wall.

I struggle to get off him, only he’s still cradling my head and now his other hand—the one that was in my panties, in me, crap—is now coming to rest on my waist.

“Luna?” His voice is raspy as if he’s smoked too many cigarettes, though he didn’t taste like them but rather like yummy, sexy boy. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing. I just...” Don’t know what I’m doing, so frigging embarrassed I lost myself in him when I thought I had better control than that, when I thought I’d learned my life lessons at long last. “I should get going.”

“What the fuck,” he mutters, frowning, his hand dropping from the back of my head to my hip. “Just wait a sec... I didn’t take you for a cocktease.” When I don’t reply, too busy panicking, his voice drops. “Tell me what the matter is. You fucking want me, I know you do.”

And that somehow, that gentler tone, is the last straw. I back away from him, straightening my blouse, zipping up my skirt, then take a steadying breath.

“This... what happened just now?” I gesture between us. “It means nothing. Nothing at all.”

I need this to be clear, so he can’t use it against me. Can’t say I’m chasing after him, that I’m in love with him or something of the sort.

Briefly I wonder if he still has that power, if he can still influence people and spread rumors to destroy me. I think of him alone on the garage roof, on his house porch, on the street asking me for help. He seems so... alone these days.

“I know it means nothing.” His voice has gone even lower, his eyes hot. “You’re welcome for the best orgasm of your life, by the way. No need to thank me.”

My cheeks burn because he’s an arrogant ass, but he’s also right. “Yeah, there’s no need.”

He chuckles, an angry sound. “Un-fucking-believable. Keep telling yourself you don’t want me, sweetheart. I’m starting to think you’ve wanted me for a long time. Maybe that’s why you skipped town, hm? To stop the conflict in your head. Because I treated you badly, but you still wanted me. Am I getting hot?”

“Fuck you, Ross.” I’m trembling with reaction. How can he know? How can he read me like that?