The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“I’m not blind,” she said indignantly. “Things are fuzzy and out of focus, but I can see you clearly.”

“Good, then watch this—” His mouth was on hers before she had a chance to respond, and instead of the protestation he was expecting, she sighed and sank into the kiss, as if she’d been longing for it and wanting it as much as he. Her lips parted, and before he could make his move, her tongue was in his mouth. It nearly sent him to his knees.

His hand went to the back of her head, pulling her closer as his tongue finally won their duel and ravaged its way into her mouth, seeking, asking . . . taking. She tasted heavenly, and her flavor was like a drug in his bloodstream; he craved more of it even as he drank it from her.

He backed her toward the inviting king-size bed, never lifting his mouth from hers, and she allowed it, her hands burrowing under his T-shirt, while she backpedaled until the back of her knees hit the bed. She lost her balance and fell onto the bed, taking him with her, and he landed partially on top of her, one hand braced on the mattress for balance and the other trailing down from her face toward her chest and then her breast. He cupped one of the temptingly soft mounds, testing its shape and weight in the palm of his hand, wishing there were no layers of clothing between them.

She arched herself into his hand, obviously wanting more, and he reluctantly left her breast, ignoring her moan of despair, to trail his fingers down her waist until he found the bottom edge of her T-shirt. His hand crept beneath the cotton, craving the heat of her naked skin against his, but she moved before he could touch her, writhing out from beneath him and breaking contact with his mouth. Gutted, he watched as she struggled to sit up and peer at him through those big gray eyes with their massively dilated pupils. Her mouth was swollen and red, her breathing out of control, and he could see her hard nipples straining against the confines of both her bra and T-shirt. She swallowed and licked her lips causing him to groan.

“Are we . . . are we going to . . . f-fuck?” The word made his cock swell more, even while he winced at the crudity coming from that pretty mouth.

“Daisy,” he reprimanded shakily. “Such language.”

“Learned it from you,” she reminded him.

“Unlearn it; euphemisms suit you more,” he murmured, while he reached out to trail his finger over her naughty, kewpie doll mouth. He leaned over to nuzzle the sensitive spot below her jaw, and she tilted her head to allow him greater access.

“Well? Are we?”

“Hmmm, I’d say so,” he whispered. “But when we have more time. For now we’re going to do some seriously heavy petting. You up for that?”

Daisy considered the question and looked into his strained face; his eyelids were heavy, making him look sleepy, but she wasn’t fooled, he was hyperalert, his entire body radiating tension. She glanced down and could see him straining at his zipper and knew with absolute certainty that this man wanted her. Wanted her! Daisy McGregor. It was a heady, powerful feeling, and she craved more of it. She wanted him, and she wasn’t going to fight it anymore. Why not just enjoy this? Mason was a great guy, but he wasn’t the man for her. He was just the man for now.

“I am,” she finally said, after a long, fraught silence. He groaned, his arms gave way, and he collapsed onto the bed on his back. He raised his hands to cover his face, and she admired his strong, beautifully veined and muscled arms. She could see the bottom edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, and it thrilled her to know that she would soon see that tattoo. And so much more.

“Thank God for that,” he muttered into his hands before he reached for her and tumbled her over his broad chest for another long, deep drugging kiss. “Come on, angel, let’s get this pesky T-shirt off you.”

She giggled, and together they fumbled like two teens as they tugged at and finally tore her T-shirt before dragging it up over her head. Daisy felt self-conscious as she was revealed to him for the first time. She was aware that because she was half slouched over him, her love handles were showing and her tummy was pooching, everything was too soft and nothing like his tight perfection. And he was staring, a lot . . . fixedly. She was certain that he’d never before been to bed with a woman who was less than perfect and now started to feel uncomfortable beneath that piercing regard. Until he spoke . . .