by Elise Faber
The last thought had her looking up at Ben, remembering how very close he’d been to kissing her all over.
His expression was a mixture of horror and shock.
Maybe he didn’t want to kiss a woman all over who’d been on the receiving end of a dog’s tongue?
She winced. Yeah, that was probably true.
“I’ll . . . uh . . . wash my hands before we . . .” She trailed off, pointed her finger between them. “Continue with—”
Ben blinked and sank down next to her.
The adorable angel in her lap growled.
“She doesn’t like me.”
Now it was Stef’s turn to blink, to wonder why a man who lived in a fucking penthouse with marble and mirrors and a white freaking rug in the entryway was living with a dog who couldn’t stand him.
“She doesn’t like anyone.”
Stef blinked again, glanced down at the white floof, trying to reconcile that fact with the sweetheart in her lap. “That’s not true,” she crooned, lifting her and nuzzling the pup’s face. “She’s a sweetheart.”
“That’s her name,” Ben said. “But I’ve never seen her act like one.”
“You’re Sweetheart?” she asked the pup.
Who responded by kissing Stef’s chin.
“Aw, baby,” she said, cuddling the dog closer. She was a tiny thing, mostly fur and bones and when Stef stood, holding her against her chest, the pup snuggled against her, and it had to be the cutest thing she had ever seen.
“I’ll put her in her crate,” Ben murmured, reaching for her.
Sweetheart growled.
“Do we have to?” Steff asked, sending sad eyes in his direction.
His were filled with heat. “We don’t,” he murmured. “We can hang on the couch and watch Dr. Pol.”
“I love Dr. Pol!” she exclaimed.
He groaned and let his head drop back. “Not you, too.”
“I admit I cringe at the surgery parts—”
“I think that’s the masochist’s favorite part,” he quipped, nodding toward the pooch. “She’s particularly focused when the good doctor starts castrating.”
Stef winced. “So, maybe not Dr. Pol?”
Big brown eyes on hers. “Whatever you want, baby.”
Baby.
It slid down her nape, trailed across her breasts, tightening her nipples, curling in her abdomen, filling the space between her thighs.
She glanced from the pooch to the man.
Though one was cute, the other was responsible for the fact that her pussy was wet. “Where’s her crate?” she asked. “I’ll put her away.”
The grin that Ben gave her had more moisture gathering between her legs, had desire flooding her senses. Her muscles were drawn tight over her skeleton. Her limbs trembled. Her nerves fired, sending sparks across the surface of her skin. Her lips—both sets of them—were tingling.
“This way,” he said, leading her down the hall and into one of the bedrooms . . . that had been converted into a doggy playroom. Numerous beds and toys were scattered across a plush rug, a water fountain took up space in one corner, a crate with a pale pink cover in the other.
He held the kennel door wide for her and with a kiss to Sweetheart’s head, she tucked the pup inside. Ben locked it in place, ignoring the rumble of displeasure from Sweetheart.
They both stood, and his mouth was still curved.
“You tame wild beasts in addition to Hoovering popcorn?”
Stef laughed as she stepped toward him. “Apparently, I have two superpowers.”
Then she kissed him.
And found peace and heat, calm and tornado of desire, all at once, all in an instant. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, trying to get closer, even though every inch of her was pressed to every hard inch of him. His tongue didn’t hesitate this time, just slid right into her mouth, coaxing hers into a rhythm that was as effortless as breathing.
She clung to him, held on as he transformed her.
Suddenly, she was lifted into his arms again as Ben spun them, pinning her against the wall. Her ankles clasped around his waist, his cock ground into her.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her head falling back as his mouth trailed down her throat.
A nip to her collarbone had her bucking against him.
Another had her hands sliding beneath his shirt, feeling the smooth expanse of his skin, blazing hot and threatening to reduce her to ash.
But she walked right into that fire, drawing his mouth back to hers, clenching her legs tighter around him, bucking her hips against his and riding the rigid length of his cock.
So. Fucking. Good.
“Stef,” he groaned, tearing his lips from hers again, this time trailing them over to her ear and lightly biting down on the lobe. She shivered and tilted her head to the side, giving him better access, falling into the fucking gloriousness of that hot mouth and silken tongue playing against her skin.
“God, Ben,” she moaned. “That’s—”
She groaned in protest when he unhitched her legs, set her feet on the floor. His fingers clasped hers, drew her from the room, pulled her farther down the hall to a set of double doors, kicking them open.
“Wow,” she breathed.
But then she barely had time to suck in a breath before he was sweeping her back up into his arms, walking across the room. A gasp escaped her when she found herself falling onto a thick mattress, his body coming down onto hers. “This okay?” he asked huskily.
It was fucking perfect.
She didn’t tell him that, though.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and tugged him down to her, said only, “More.”
Another grin that set her insides on fire.
And then he gave her more.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben
More.
She wanted more.
She was going to get more, every fucking bit of him.
Dropping more of his weight into her, he took her mouth again, tasting that sweet and floral ambrosia on her lips, her tongue. Her nails bit into his scalp, pulling him even closer, until he was between her thighs, only the layers of their clothing between them.
He needed to do something about that.
But he couldn’t tear himself away from her mouth, from her taste in order to do so. Her mouth was a drug, her body another. He needed to taste and touch and—
She shoved him back, rolling him over and yanking her shirt over her head.
Pale skin, a plain beige bra. Not lace, not particularly sexy, and yet it was still the best thing he’d ever seen. Her fingers went to the button on her jeans, and he moved, flipping them again and taking over the task, undoing the zipper, yanking them down her legs, chucking one shoe then the another.
They landed behind him with a thunk.
His eyes drifted down to her feet, clad in ankle socks that were printed with pink-haloed unicorns.
He grinned. “Unicorns?”
A shrug, her breasts jiggling in that bra, and his mouth watered. “I like fictional critters.”
“Hmm.” He bent, nibbled on her ankle. “They’ll stay on.”
She laughed, reached for her underwear. “But hopefully not these.” Her fingers slipped beneath the waistband, began nudging them down. Then she paused. “Do you have a condom?” Her fingers slipped out, she turned for the door. “Because I can go get—”
A brush of his lips to hers.
Then he reached into the nightstand, pulled out a box of condoms.
One he’d bought after his message had gone unanswered, part of him hopeful, the other part resentful and thinking he might open that box with someone else. And one that had remained unopened since.
“Oh,” she murmured.
“Oh,” he agreed.
He was about to order her to get her hands back into her panties when she shifted her hips, pushed down the plain cotton then, just as he was reveling in the flash of cropped brown curls, her back arched and she reached b
ehind her, unclipping her bra and tossing it to the side.
Ben had no fucking clue where it had landed.
He couldn’t summon a fuck.
Not when Stef was naked and on his bed. Curves. Red lips. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to taste every inch.
So he did—
Or at least, he intended to.
But then she placed a hand on his chest, stopping him. His heart sank, disappointment curling through him, certain she had changed her mind. “Off.” She reached for the hem of his shirt, and only then did he relax enough to tear it over his head, to shove his sweats down and remove his shoes.
He kept his boxer briefs on because it would be far too easy, too tempting to slip back between her thighs, to slip inside her slick center. Even now, the moisture glistened on her thighs, making his mouth water, his desire the heavy strum of a bass guitar.
Take. Take. Take.
Patience.
“Okay?” he murmured when she abruptly sat up.
“You are the sexiest man I’ve ever seen,” she said, her voice a rasp that slid over his skin, even before her fingers trailed it—caressing over his shoulders, down his arms, up over his abdomen before coming to a rest on his chest. They blazed, the heat sinking into him, scorching down his spine, his cock growing even harder.
His cheeks felt hot at the compliment, but thankfully he didn’t have to worry about her seeing it. “You’re beautiful.” He moved so he was back over her, bracing himself on one hand, using the other to smooth back her hair. “I’ve dreamed about kissing these lips.”
“And getting my lipstick all over you,” she said, smiling up at him, her thumb running along his bottom lip. “All because I’m vain.”
“Vain?” he asked, smoothing his palm up her side.
Her skin was silk beneath him. “I can’t live without my lipstick.” A shrug, her ribs moving beneath his palm. “So, yes, vain.”
“Should I tell you that I’ve been dreaming of red lips for months now?”
Her mouth curved. “So, at least vain has a purpose?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning down and dragging his mouth along her jaw, pausing at her earlobe. “But only if I get to taste them again.”
She smiled and tilted her chin up.
And then there were no more words.
His tongue was in her mouth, his lips on hers then, when his lungs protested, trailing them down, stopping to pay homage to her breasts, suckling and nipping and deducing what she liked best—hard, steady pulls on her nipples. Then he was moving down again, across the soft curve of her belly, allowing his tongue to drift along her hips . . . and still down.
Nudging her thighs apart.
Moving in between.
Kissing up one thigh and skipping the part he was desperate to taste, wanting her writhing beneath him. He might not have had a hundred women, might have been a late bloomer and be uneasy with words, but he paid attention. He knew people, could read them.
Could read her.
How her legs trembled when he nipped, how her hands found their way into his hair and tugged when he brought the flat of his tongue up, when he slid it along the outside of her labia, darted it out to taste the sweetly tart folds.
“Fuck,” he groaned. That was good.
Her lips parted on a moan, and she drew him closer, her legs wrapping tight, moisture flooding his mouth. Ben didn’t stop, just continued to figure out all the things she liked—how much pressure, the way he circled his tongue, how he used the flat of it to press against the bundle of nerves. But when he slid a finger inside her damp tightness, she arched beneath him, and when he slid another in, she bucked, his name tumbling from her tongue.
He sucked her clit deep, curved his fingers, and his name became a chant.
“Ben, Ben, Ben—”
The best sound on the planet.
No.
He was wrong. The best sound on the planet happened next. When her body bowed on the mattress, when she ground her pussy against his mouth, when every muscle in her body was tight, straining.
And then she exploded.
A gasp. A long, trailing moan.
She went limp, her pussy clenching around his fingers.
She was beautiful, her color high, her lips swollen, sweat glimmering on her brow, and then those red lips tugged up into a smile, and she crooked a finger at him. “Come inside me.”
He wasn’t done. Not nearly.
He’d had months to plan this. Months to think about everything he wanted to do to her.
But when she smiled at him like that, when she crooked her finger, he knew he couldn’t deny her anything. Reaching for the box of condoms as he slid up her body, Ben tore open the top and took her mouth at the same time. His hands were busy—one on the bed next to her side to not crush her, one on the box—so he couldn’t fend off hers.
Not that he tried very hard, if he was being honest.
Because her hands had slid down his abdomen, slipped beneath the waistband of his underwear, and grasped him tight.
Groaning, he thrust into her hand, into those firm fingers.
“You’re hard,” she whispered. Though the statement was nonsensical—because of course he was hard, he was harder than he’d ever been in his life—the statement sent fire to his cock. He knew it was weeping, that he was seconds away from exploding.
After yanking a condom out of the box, he jerked her hands off him then tore open the packet with his teeth, rolled it down, chucked his underwear to the side, and . . .
Inhaled.
Because he knew that once he was inside that tight, wet heat, he wouldn’t be able to stop, wouldn’t last long.
So, he clenched his jaw, sucked in one more breath, and then set about turning her into an absolute frenzy of need. He took her mouth, returned to her breasts. Not gently. None of it was gentle. He suckled her breasts, drove his fingers in between her legs, his thumb on her clit, his finger inside.
She gasped and moaned and clung to him, and then he heard the hitch in her breathing again, knew that she was close.
Thank fuck.
He prowled down her body, positioned himself, and . . . glanced up at curves, at red lips, at pretty brown eyes.
Her pupils were huge. Her mouth tempted him.
“Now, Ben.” Her smile was almost feral as she moved before he could, gripping his ass with one hand, wrapping a leg around his hip, and finally . . . finally drawing him inside.
They both moaned.
She clenched around him—her leg, her pussy, her arms.
He’d been right.
He wasn’t going to be able to last long. But thankfully, she wasn’t going to either.
Her hips met his, her fingers clenched on his ass, his shoulder, and they moved. A rhythm that was instinctual, that didn’t take any effort to stumble into. They were two sides of the same coin, knowing each other without struggle.
And it was good.
And it . . . wasn’t going to last long.
He slid a hand up, cupped Stef’s breast, running his finger back and forth across the hard bud of her nipple. She clenched tighter, arched further, her head falling back onto the pillow, her lips parted on a moan.
She went over the edge, and not a moment too soon. His orgasm was coiling in the base of his spine, threatening to explode out through his cock.
One stroke.
Another.
He toppled, pleasure dousing him from head to toe, a steaming bucket of water dumped over his head. It soaked into his skin, settled into his very bones, so much fucking bliss washing over him that it took every bit of effort to not collapse on top of her.
But then Stef made a mewl of complaint, tugged him down, and he lowered himself to the mattress, barely summoning the energy to roll to his side and gather her close.
Their breaths came in rapid gusts.
He’d been cracked open, reformed, every past experience erased from his mind until the only thing that remained was Stef—beautiful, intoxicating, Stef.
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She nuzzled into his neck, and then she laughed.
“What?” he asked, smoothing a hand down her back.
“That was—” She laughed again. “That was fucking incredible.”
Ben froze, his arms tightly around her, his lungs still straining, the sweat not yet dry on his body, and . . . he laughed, too.
Chapter Fifteen
Stef
Eventually, Ben slid out of bed to take care of the condom, and Stef knew that she should get dressed, should either take him up on the ride or see if the surge in demand had eased so she could get back to her car.
It was late, they’d gone to the midnight showing, so it must be nearing four. God, she hadn’t been up this late in years. Not since her college years—and her all-nighters hadn’t ever included great sex. Great studying maybe, but not sex. Oh, the sex itself had been good, definitely satisfying. Her partners had always been fun, and she wasn’t shy between the sheets. So she had enjoyed herself and especially enjoyed the orgasms that weren’t courtesy of her own fingers, but it had never been like this.
Never been this . . . incredible.
She could easily get addicted.
She could easily end up wanting something that would wind up with her brokenhearted.
That happy thought killed her post-orgasm glow, and Stef pushed out of bed. She should go before this got weird. Maybe set up another time for some incredible sex. It was late. She was tired. Plus, Fred would be missing her.
He’d need to go out to the bathroom in a couple of hours, would be wondering where she was.
She didn’t leave him, except for doggy day care, and he would worry.
So she searched for her panties, yanked them up her legs, and was just reaching for her bra when Ben walked back into the room.
“What are you doing?” he asked, prowling over to her, his delicious body on display.
“I need to get home,” she said. “Fred will be waiting for me.”
His brows drew together, the light from the hallway enough that she didn’t miss the blast of fury in his eyes. Then they cleared. “Your dog.”
