by Elise Faber
And he could give it back just as powerfully.
Wanting to give it back was what finally had him pulling away and stifling a groan. He’d planned this night for her, wanted to make it special. That couldn’t happen if he fucked her in the back seat of the limo and they missed their takeoff.
“Now your lipstick is messed up, babe.”
She grinned up at him, wiped the corner of his mouth. “So is yours, honey.”
Laughing, Hazel took the driver’s hand, accepting the assistance to get out of the car, and giving him a fantastic start to the date—namely a view of her ass in that slinky black dress. He followed and they both hit the tarmac.
Her eyes went wide, surveying the various vehicles on the airstrip. Lots of small planes, some old, most modern, several jets that probably belonged to some of the bigwigs in town, and their destination—a hanger off in the corner that ran night time tours of the city.
“Are we going in one of the planes?” Her eyes were wide. So wide.
“I know it’s not shark diving,” he teased, amusement blipping through him, “and it’s not a kitchen sink full of ice cream.” He shook his head. “But we are going in a helicopter.”
Her eyes went somehow wider. Shit. Was she afraid of flying? He hadn’t thought to ask.
Before he could, she did a little dance. “That is so cool!” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve always wanted to ride in a helicopter!
Phew.
Her with the food thing.
Him with the copter thing
Oliver made a mental note to make sure they talked about this stuff. Because it was important…and also because he needed to know when to make a pitstop at McDonald’s so he could get his woman some fries.
“This is incredible,” she whispered through the microphone attached to the headset both of them had been given.
A quick safety talk.
Signing their lives away on some waivers.
And then they’d been in the air, a light snack—for Hazel’s sake—set in a container between them, and the lights of Baltimore glimmering around them.
They’d been flying for about forty minutes, having flown around the city, the pilot pointing out the sights, and now they were circling the airport and getting ready to land again. Where the limo would be waiting for the next part of their date.
Dinner on the waterfront.
In a place with candles and music and soft lighting.
“You have any room in that stomach of yours?”
“Why?” she asked. “We hitting up the Ice Creamery for dessert?”
He grinned. “Maybe later. We have a reservation at Lana’s.”
“Lana’s?” she gasped, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“I know,” he said.
“How?” she began to ask before clarity dawned and she shrugged ruefully. “Pru.”
He nodded. “Pru might have dished on a few things. Though,” he said, teasing entering his tone, “she didn’t tell me that her best friend is a nervous flier.”
“I am not!” she gasped.
“Babe, you’re clutching my hand as we go down, and you practically broke my fingers when we went up.”
Katie, their pilot, laughed quietly. “You did look a little gray when we first went up.”
“Rude,” Hazel muttered, but her lips were twitching and her tone said that she found them anything but rude. “Just because I’m not a helicopter pilot and super chill while I’m wielding a death machine.”
Katie laughed a little louder. Oliver joined in.
“I like the going straight and smooth part,” Hazel went on, “and I like the lights. Those are beautiful. But the going up and down freaks me out a bit.” Her eyes hit Oliver’s. “For the record, I’m the same way on planes, so if that’s an issue, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
He flexed his fingers against her grip. “I don’t mind you holding my hand, babe.”
She grinned up at him.
“Even if you tried to break it.”
That grin turned glare and she huffed. “Because I was excited,” she grumbled, reaching up with her free hand like she was going to twist her earring, but since it was covered by the headphones, she dropped it back into her lap, her lips pressing flat. “And a little nervous, okay? Is that a crime?”
His knuckles on her cheek, because he loved the feel of her skin, because he loved what her eyes did when he touched her like that. “No.” He kissed the tip of her nose, bumping both of their mics together in a way that probably wasn’t smooth in the least, but since it involved his mouth on her body, he couldn’t be too hard on himself. “So long as you keep holding my hand.”
Her mouth twitched. “That I can do.”
Their eyes locked. “Even if the ride gets bumpy, babe.”
Now her smile softened, and her hand found his thigh, squeezed lightly.
“That I can do.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hazel
Never in her life had she been so full.
And turned on.
And…full.
French fries and apple pies. Cheese and fruit and salami. Champagne. Soda. And then a huge steak, mashed potatoes, a side of summer squash (her trying to pretend she was healthy), and a slab of chocolate cake that had so many layers it could rival the Empire State building.
She’d consumed many times her body weight in calories.
She’d need to do a million pilates classes (this was a slight exaggeration) to make up for the food she’d eaten.
And yet, even though she felt so deep in a food coma that she could hardly move, she was also so turned on that she could barely think straight.
Probably that was because Oliver had cozied up to her in the booth, his side pressed to hers.
He’d touched her the entire meal—fingers on her cheek, trailing down her arm, a kiss to her jaw, her throat, a palm resting on her thigh. That was the worst. Because it had been resting on the bare skin of her thigh, just below the hem of her dress, and she’d spent no less than five minutes warring with herself over asking—okay, begging—him to just slide that hand north.
Dripping.
She was absolutely dripping.
It was a wonder she’d been able to eat at all. But then again, she hadn’t earned her ass and thighs and breasts by being unable to eat under stressful circumstances.
If trying to not jump Oliver could be considered stressful.
Hazel paused, considered that.
Okay.
Not jumping Oliver when she really wanted to could be considered majorly stressful.
“Can we walk around the block?” she asked, as he helped her into her coat by the front door of the restaurant. His fingers smoothed down the wool collar of the plain black peacoat.
His brows drew down as he shrugged into his own jacket. “It’s cold out.”
She rubbed her tummy. “My stomach needs to be vertical for a bit.”
Dark brows drawing together, confusion on his pretty face. “Isn’t it pretty much always vertical?” he asked, buttoning the front of his coat.
Yes, she supposed, except when one was lying down.
But that wasn’t what she’d meant.
“Translation,” she told him, “I ate too much, so I need to walk it off so I can stop feeling like a bloated walrus.”
A flash of white teeth. “Got it.”
He tugged open the door for her, holding it so she could walk through, his fingertips brushing the side of her neck as she stepped out into the cool—okay, cold evening air. Spring was coming, and they’d had a few decent nights lately, including the few hours they’d spent together with Noah on Luc and Lexi’s back porch, but tonight wasn’t one of them.
In a word: brisk.
And another: wind chill.
Or that was two, she supposed. Either way, he found the limo driver (not far from the restaurant), told her they’d be taking a loop and would meet her back there, and
then took Hazel’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
Since it was almost spring, she didn’t have gloves, and though the air was frosty, she was glad to be without them.
Otherwise, how would she feel Oliver’s warm, rough fingers against hers?
She wouldn’t have. That’s how.
Yes, she was being silly. No, she didn’t care. She was happy and fulfilled and couldn’t think of a time in her life that she’d felt this giddy just being with another human being.
Oliver was…hers.
He tugged her toward the right, walking with purpose though she knew there wasn’t really anything in the direction he was taking her—aside from a few closed shops and darkened streets that were busier for lunch than they were dinner.
Um…
Oliver was hers who was taking her down a scary, dark road? “Where are we—”
She hadn’t finished the question before he turned and yanked her down an alley—dimly lit, shaded from the wind, and not filled with the normal funk one might expect of alleys in general.
One moment the query was on her tongue.
The next minute it was Oliver’s tongue on hers.
Oh, she thought, that was where he was taking her.
And that was pretty much the last thought—as simple as it was—that slid through her brain before her back was against the brick wall and Oliver’s mouth was on hers. Soft lips, a firm tongue, and hands, rough, calloused palms that finally—finally!—slipped beneath the hem of her skirt. After a scorching kiss, he released her mouth, dragged his down her throat, nipping where her neck met her shoulder, his hands continuing to move north.
Cold air on her thighs.
But that wasn’t why she was shivering.
Nope. The shiver was because he’d cupped her ass, and in cupping her flesh, his fingers were spreading her cheeks, sliding in…dancing lightly over the soaked scrap of silk covering her pussy. His grip tightened, the lace felt like the best sort of roughness, dragging over her clit, pulling taut over her folds, rubbing over her crack, pressing over her hole there, making her want more than just her pussy filled.
So not first date desire.
This was date one million desire. This was having explored everything with Oliver and wanting so much more.
And not just in her vagina.
He slipped one hand out from her dress, tilted her head, and kissed her.
Then he broke away, breaths coming rapidly, his forehead to hers, his eyes on hers, “Don’t think I didn’t just add wall sex to my Fuck List.”
Her lungs were working just as hard, and it was supremely difficult to focus when his hand was still on her ass, his fingertips still trailing over the lace—clit, labia, anus, clit, labia, anus. She wanted him everywhere down there, all at once, and all the dirty books she read weren’t helping. Which was probably why she rose on tiptoe and whispered, “I’ve got a few more things to add to your list, baby.”
Wickedness in pale blue eyes. “Yeah? How’s your stomach?”
She drew her brows together, trying to process the change in topic—sex to stomachs. “Fine.”
“Good.” He took her hand, started tugging her toward the street. “Tell me about your list in the car.”
Spinning. She was spinning.
Then she processed the train of his thoughts—walking to ease her fullness (not that they’d walked far, but apparently kissing could also be a cure for overeating) to sexual fantasies to getting back to one of their places as quickly as possible in order to tick off some of those sexual fantasies. Namely—at least on her part—having his cock inside her as quickly as possible, hopefully as deep as possible.
And maybe as fast as possible.
“How do you feel about car sex?” she asked.
A groan.
His fingers clenching on hers.
They reached the limo a few moments later, and he opened the door before the driver could get out, shoving her inside and slamming the door behind them. The divider went up, the car started moving, and Oliver had her in his lap a moment after that. “You’re killing me, babe,” he growled. “I’m trying to do right by you, to make it special and mean something and you’re fucking temptation personified.”
Her hands went to his cheeks, cupped them as she stared into his pale blue eyes. “Honey,” she said gently, “it’s already going to mean everything because it’s with you.”
He went still.
His hand clenched on her ass, drew her nearer for a kiss that blazed through her veins and threatened to turn her blood to steam, her organs to ash.
“I love you.”
Not said gently, his voice gravel, his hands still on her ass, his cock hard against her, his eyes blazing, and breaths—smelling like chocolate—dancing over her skin.
Her heart squeezed. “I love you, too.”
Those blazing eyes held hers, delving deep, searching for something she didn’t understand, couldn’t pinpoint, because she wasn’t the one in his mind. Though she knew it probably had something to do with him wanting to show her how much she meant to him. But the thing was, she already knew that. He’d shown it to her, not just tonight, but many times over the last couple of weeks.
Which was why she wouldn’t push him.
Because though he wanted her—she could feel that with crystal certainty between her thighs—this was important to him.
But she wanted to make one thing clear, just in case the opportunity presented itself in the future.
Never let it be said that she didn’t ask for what she wanted—at least with Oliver.
Something he’d given her the courage to do.
Something Trevor never had.
Yet another reason her broken engagement was for the best.
Pushing that out of her mind, she spoke against his lips. “For the record, I love car sex. But I especially love limo sex.”
He growled, pulled back, hands going to the hem of her skirt. “You’ve had limo sex?” He sounded jealous and some part of her took great pleasure in that.
“Not yet”—a gasp as he yanked up her dress—“but I’m game to try.” Hot eyes. A hard body beneath hers, and she couldn’t stop herself from nibbling at his lips. “Same goes for car sex of any type. I’ve read about it. I’ve fantasized about doing it. I just…haven’t gotten there.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
Fingers biting into her ass. “Another item for my Fuck List.” Sin. His smile was pure sin and his hands tightened further, drew her closer. “I’m game for limo sex.”
“Wh-what?”
He kissed her, so long and hard that she forgot her train of thought.
“I’m going to fuck you on this seat, babe,” he said when they broke away, both gasping for air.
She inhaled, so sharply, it was a miracle she didn’t choke on her own spit.
Fingers on her cheek. “See, you like that,” he murmured, all hot silk.
A nod. How could she not like it? The man smiling at her like he was the dark hero in one of her books, as though he were going to use and abuse her body until she still felt him the next day? Yeah. She really fucking liked that.
His hips moved against hers, rubbing his cock against her, making her desperate to have all the layers between them gone. “I’m going to fuck you hard, babe.”
Her breath slid out of her on a rasping exhale, as she nodded again. Yes. She wanted that. Especially when her heart had already felt like it would pound out of her chest, as though it would explode because it was pumping so hard, but Oliver saying he was going to fuck her and do it hard, sent her pulse into the stratosphere. Her heart absolutely thudded against her rib cage, and she felt like she’d been dunked in a vat of lava, her skin went so hot and tight. Liquid heat drenched her panties. Her clit pulsed, and her nipples went hard and sensitive, chafing against the lace of her bra in the best way.
But…
He’d been so determined to make their first time romantic and sweet, and she’d thought t
hat he would unequivocally turn her down and make her wait until he drove them home, after the limo dropped them at McDonald’s, of course.
For him to give in, to say he was game, that he was going to fuck her hard, and…she couldn’t lie and say the only thing she felt was arousal.
That was a solid eighty-six percent of it, for sure.
But the other fourteen percent got a little nervous.
Would the driver hear? Were the windows tinted enough so that the people in the other cars couldn’t see them? Did it matter? Was that fear wrapped up with her arousal and threatening to send her flying?
The answer to the last one was yes.
Which meant, ultimately, the answer to the first three questions didn’t matter.
“You sure, honey?” she asked.
Because even though she felt seconds away from an orgasm, she didn’t want to take away from what Oliver was imagining, planning, wanting.
So, she resisted the urge to yank out his cock and sit on it, and instead waited for him to answer.
His answer was to work at the buttons on her coat, and to do it fast, his words gruff on her skin as he leaned forward to nip at her throat. “Gonna get it hard, babe, so you’d better get ready.”
Ho, Mama.
Her pussy clenched. Her nipples went harder.
And suddenly, she was burning up, in a frenzy, her fingers moving to help him, trying to yank the heavy garment down her arms. It bunched on her elbows, mostly because she stopped fighting with the fastenings on her coat and began to work at his. She’d been dreaming of undoing the buttons on his dress shirt all night, of kissing a path along the skin she revealed inch by inch by inch.
But the damned wool of his jacket was in the way, and then he was yanking her coat off, distracting her from her task, and tossing it to the floor of the limo.
Cool air kissed the backs of her thighs then her spine as his fingers went to the tab of her zipper and yanked it down.
“Fuck if I haven’t been dreaming of doing that all night,” he muttered, echoing her thoughts as he tugged at the fabric, yanking it down over her arms and revealing the lace of her bra.
Which was virtually sheer, offered absolutely no support, and the clasp was always a bit uncomfortable in the back, digging into her skin. But that small amount of discomfort was absolutely worth it when it made Oliver look at her body like that.
