by Cara McKenna
A final smile, then he leaned in close.
Just their lips, for a long moment, until Jamie felt the bottle being eased from her hand, and Connor pulled away to set both drinks on the coffee table.
Then he was cupping her face, his bold mouth claiming hers. Under her palms, his chest was warm, and she strained to feel his heartbeat over the pounding of her own pulse. Her body flushed from her lips down her neck, heat swelling in her chest and gathering between her thighs. As his tongue stroked hers, she remembered the feel of his excitement last night in the pub. Of the faint, rhythmic insistence of his hips, rubbing his erection against her. She imagined him taking her hand, running it down between their bodies, pressing it to his cock. A fever fogged her mind, arousal winding so tight she broke away to steal a gulp of air.
“All right?” he asked, his lips close enough to tickle her cheek with the words.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just catching my breath.” She pulled back to study his face, letting him see her wonder. She brought her fingertips to his face and traced his brows, his jaw, his lips. You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Handsome in and of himself, but after knowing he made her feel so much, and from nothing more than kissing...
She’d had flings before, gone to bed with guys impulsively. But those leaps had always come with a bit of a push on the man’s part, a touch of surrender on hers. With Connor she needed no coaxing, no nudging. She was barreling toward this with every cell in her body, aching for the free fall, the impact, to dive so deep into this attraction she’d never see the sun again.
As their mouths met again, now she was the one kissing him. Her ferocity caught him off guard but the next moment he was with her, right there, welcoming her to taste and explore him, strong, warm hands on her shoulder and neck, drawing her in.
Their legs tangled. She didn’t think she could possibly get close enough to this man, then his hands were on her hips, pulling, urging her onto his lap. She straddled his legs and settled their middles close, and she felt him—their belt buckles clicked and there he was, hard, taunting once more from behind all these miserable layers. Yet it thrilled her as truly as a fingertip might, teasing her bare clit.
She liked this angle—this feeling that she was nearly above him as they kissed. He was restless beneath her, his thighs and hips pumping softly, making her think of nothing but sex. Of being on this man’s bed, feeling his weight against her, smelling his naked skin. Hearing what sounds or words would come as his excitement turned to desperation. She wanted to make him crazy. Absolutely raving mad. She told him so with her hips.
The kissing fell apart, the both of them panting, mouth to mouth. His fingers were lost in her hair, their bodies practically fighting now. Slowly, Connor seemed to get control of himself. His breathing deepened and the hands cradling her head felt steady, his touch deliberate. He nipped softly at her lips, his grin playful.
She grinned herself. “What are you smiling for?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Mmm.” Good answer. She kissed him for it. He kissed her back, then again, and suddenly he was moving her. She let herself flop back along the couch, welcoming his body as he got between her legs, hugging his hips with her thighs.
If those faint thrusts the night before had been dirty, the ones he offered now were downright filthy. Slow, explicit strokes that made her dizzy, made her want to claw his clothes to pieces. Instead she stroked his back, kneaded his shoulders, his arms, his ass.
Something had shifted in him, flirtatious charm giving way to something far more wicked. After long minutes of taunting contact, he pushed up on straight arms to ask, “Have you been with anyone, since him?”
It could’ve been rude, that question. Easily. Could’ve come off cocky or tacky, but there was an unmistakable strain of hope in his voice and eyes—naked honesty. It excited him to maybe be her first in so long, the one to break her drought. To perhaps feel in some way that she had been waiting for him, only him. But not because the idea made him feel smug, she didn’t think. More as if it was a gift he couldn’t wait to give her.
She shook her head. “No one. Not even just kissing. Not even a crush, until you. I wanted to feel that, to prove to myself I was moving on...but it just didn’t happen. Until you.”
“I’m honored.”
“Don’t be honored,” she teased. “Just be dirty.”
“Whatever you need.”
After another minute’s stroking and rubbing and torture and kissing, her arousal was turning to frustration. The record had come to the end of its side, and the hush of the needle echoed what she felt—relentless friction and a desperate need to be attended to.
“What I want,” she said between tastes of his mouth, “is for our jeans to disintegrate before I catch fire.”
His laugh excited her just as his moans had. “Want to go to my room?”
“Yes.”
They left the couch and he took her hand, leading her to a room off a short hall. He hit a switch and a lamp came on beside a twin bed. His room matched the rest of the flat, if slightly more cluttered—his bed was sloppily made and he grabbed a couple pieces of clothing that hadn’t quite made it into his hamper. But the space was decorated nicely, more framed photos and show posters hanging against the funny old wallpaper, his bookshelf fully stocked.
“I didn’t exactly set the scene for a seduction,” he said eyeing his habitat.
“I don’t care. I want to see your room however it usually looks.” She glanced around, taking in all the little details of him. The objects that this not quite stranger had chosen to populate his space. The bed where he slept. The bed she’d be waking up in, she hoped.
She turned her attention to the man himself, now busy flipping his blinds shut. His shoulder blades moved beneath his T-shirt, the fabric shifting at the small of his back. What was his body like, under there? She’d felt him—on the bike, on the couch—but her eyes wanted their turn.
He faced her in the dim light, his smile shy once more. He gestured to his bed and she took a seat, stripping her shoes and socks. He followed her lead on the latter. Goodness, even his feet were nice looking. Long and pale and smooth, with those fans of delicate bone.
“Is it warm enough in here?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
“Good. Where were we?”
They found their way back, settling on their sides, thighs hugged together. As his mouth owned hers, Connor’s fingers stroked her cheek and played with her hair, combing it, then fisting it softly. That little taste of aggression made her body flush hot, and suddenly her hands were at his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He let her. Let her open it, then his fly, and spread the denim. She undid her own belt and jeans next, and as she pushed them down, he did the same with his, breaking their bodies apart to kick and shove until both pairs had been pitched to the floor.
When they came back together, everything was different. He rolled her onto her back, planting his knees between hers. All that exciting, muffled contact was focused now. She felt how badly he wanted her, the stiff length of him radiating heat against the crease of her upper thigh.
A muttered “Wow” escaped her lips.
He answered with a soft grunt, then sat back on his heels to peel away his shirt. He seemed nearly angry at the cotton as he yanked it over his head and flung it aside.
If she’d known what that shirt had been hiding from her, she’d have been angry with it, too. Dear God, what a beautiful body. Not the kind that a guy spent hours sculpting in a gym—just lean, natural muscle draped on a long, elegant frame. The kind of build that shifted with a man’s every subtle movement, highlighting his physicality.
She didn’t have a chance to stare—now it was her top being tugged off by those capable hands, his eyes taking in what was revealed. He stroked slow palms over her breasts, his skin slipping over mauve satin, his gaze hungry and brazen. He slid his thumbs under the straps, toying, watching, then those hands were behind her back, seeking
the closure. She arched to give him access, then her bra was going, going, gone, slipping down her arms. The air was cool, his gaze scorching. He traced the edges of her breasts first, them closed them in his palms. The contact shut her eyes and opened her mouth. Moments later his caresses changed—hot, slick, with a rough tease of stubble. His lips and tongue and the faintest scrape of teeth turned the tingle in her nipple to an outright ache. Her fingers found his hair, curling tight, begging him, Keep going. Don’t stop. Please.
It was only when her need to feel his excitement overshadowed the physical pleasure that she released his hair, reaching for his hips. He lowered them as she demanded, pressing his cock flush to her sex. So much hotter with just cotton and satin between them. She could feel the contours of him through those thin layers—the ridge of his thick shaft, the shape of his head. He ran his length along her lips in long, cruel strokes, arm and chest muscles standing out, making her eager to watch him work.
His face was fascinating, his expression both lust drunk and steeled. A sound escaped his throat, a mix of grunt and sigh and moan. Frustration and excitement combined. It made her ache to imagine how he’d look and feel as he came undone above her.
She stroked his sides hungrily, feeling his flesh clenching and releasing with every thrust. “I want you.”
“I want you,” he murmured. “So bloody bad.”
“You can have me.”
His nostrils flared and a sigh huffed from his lips, a split second’s triumph. But when he spoke—
“Not yet. Not until I’ve made you come.”
Of all the cruel and wondrous rules...
He slowed, then stopped, catching his breath.
“Show me,” she said, breathless.
He cupped his erection through the fabric, stroked himself softly. “You want to see?”
“Yeah. Show me, Connor.”
He sat back on his heels and tucked his thumbs under his waistband. With a smooth, slow motion, he pushed it down.
She’d never had a man do quite this—expose himself so blatantly to her. For her? Present himself. She’d never asked for it before, but something about him told her he’d enjoy that—being objectified. He touched himself subtly, with just his thumb and fingertips. She wondered which of them was more lit up by the tease.
He let himself go. “Lie with me. Here.” He urged her to shed her panties as he stripped his shorts, then to lie on her side, her back to his chest. He coaxed her leg up. His cock was hot and hard against her thigh, but it was his hand that offered the pleasure—warm, sure fingertips found her clit, and when she gasped, he bit her neck softly. A near-arrogant sound heated her skin. Those talented fingers slid lower, seeking her lips, and when he next stroked her clit the contact was slick. She sucked a breath, back arching.
“Good,” he murmured. “Let me figure you out.”
She smiled at that, unseen. Of course he’d want that—to mess around and discover how she worked, how to make her respond. He probably threw out instruction manuals before assembling furniture or programming stereos, just for the challenge. Fine by her. Let the man tinker. Let him master her.
His fingers were sure—curious and practiced, and he took her cues. When her breath hitched, he stuck with whatever caress had done it, and his own exhalation would flare steam on her neck, often chased by that hungry hint of a bite. But there was even more she wanted from him. She reached back, finding his hair, fisting it.
“I love your voice,” she murmured.
“You want to hear me?” Even that question was doing the job, like liquor snaking through her.
“Yeah.”
“Sweet or dirty?” he asked.
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
He obeyed without hesitation. “I’m thinking I can’t remember ever wanting someone so badly. Being this hard. Wanting so badly to taste a woman. Taste you. Make you come. Make you ready—make you wet, and...what’s the word?” He bit her softly. “Lush,” he concluded.
The perfect description for how she felt—hot and slick and flushed, tight from wanting him, her body primed for nothing aside from welcoming his cock.
His erection had crept higher, his crown taunting her folds. If she came right now, would that be his invitation? He could take her, just as they were. An angling of his hips and a single push and they’d be there.
“You have condoms, right?” she asked.
“Of course.”
Excellent. She let the logistics go, melting back into the present and the contact. And into his words.
“Are you close?”
“Not yet, but I will be.” Especially if you keep talking.
“I can’t wait to be inside you.”
And just like that, she was at the edge.
“Connor.” Her hand was wrapped around his wrist, lost in the feel of bone and skin and muscle—the sensations of him serving her—and the heat knotting tight and urgent in her sex.
“Like that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good...” Then, “Say it again.”
“Connor.”
“Say it when you come.”
And it was that—that order, that taste of his cocky, selfish side, that tipped her.
“Connor. Fuck.”
“Good. Good.” His circling fingertips raced, concentrating the friction, and the room was gone; the air, everything, gone. There was nothing but his touch and his breathing and his teeth rasping her skin as her world unraveled.
Unbidden, her thighs clenched, squeezing his fingers and cock tight, protecting her clit from any more friction. He relented. Kisses landed softly on her throat, along with the brush of his nose, the heat of an exhalation. Darker contact, below—the subtle thrust of his cock between her legs. If his pleasure was a thing he demanded must be earned, first...
“Do I get you now?” she asked, craning her neck to meet his eyes.
“Do I get you?” he countered, but he was moving, slipping aside and coaxing her to lie on her back. He didn’t wait for the answer, but instead leaned to reach for a drawer in the bedside table. When he got to his knees between her legs, he was already rolling the condom down his cock. The gesture was oddly elegant, something about the motions of his forearm and fingers resembling an artist’s sure movement. She was rapt.
Now those arms were bracing his beautiful body above her, his hips angling his cock to her sex.
“Ready?” he asked.
Breathless, she nodded.
He slid in slow—slow and deep and with complete and utter confidence, as though the two of them together was the most natural, inevitable act possible. A soft gasp drew her attention to his face, and his gaze burning into hers was more humbling and raw and intense than anything happening between their bodies.
In a whisper he asked, “Do you like it?” There was something deliciously crass in the way he said it, and the way he drew out slowly then eased back in.
“I love it,” she told him, and let him see the way she watched. Let him see how true her words were.
“How do you like it?”
“Just show me what you like. Let me see.” Every inch of his skin, his sounds, his smells, now the motions that gave him pleasure. Everything—she wanted to know everything about this man.
He balanced on one arm, grabbed her hip with his free hand and urged her to tilt them up. His knees spread wider and he planted his hands above her shoulders. He felt so incredibly above her, and more aggressive, somehow. His strokes brought him deep inside her body and rocked her against the mattress. As if he was claiming her. No, darker—as if he was nailing her. Taking her. Using her. Hot as fucking hell.
“This is how I want it,” he told her, eyes electric. “I can’t get deep enough inside you.”
Excitement rolled through her. Hugging her legs to his sides, she opened herself.
His eyes shut and he moaned. She laced her fingers through his messy hair and clutched him, holding his head with a possession that echoed his driving hips.
She told him with her welcoming body and greedy hands, Take what you want.
And it was just...right.
It clicked in a way she’d only experienced once before with a guy, and never quite like this. As though their bodies had been cast as two halves. Like a glove, like bookends, whatever. Something cheesy and cliché, but true. She knew how to move with him, knew what he wanted without guessing. It was as if their bodies had been doing this together for years. She knew instinctively how he needed to be touched—with rough, greedy familiarity, digging nails and demanding hands. Her hips knew how to dance with his; her heels knew to seek the backs of his thighs and spur his motions. She knew exactly what he wanted from their sex. To feel welcomed even as his body seemed bent on owning hers.
Their motions had grown aggressive, punctuated by the soft slap of skin on skin—then louder. The contrast of smooth, confident, gliding strokes and rough impact.
“You feel so good.” His voice was strained, his hips slowing as though he was struggling for control.
“I want to see you lose it.”
“There’s something else I want,” he murmured, voice reedy.
“What?”
“Your mouth.” It was nearly a question, the way he said it.
“Sure.”
He pulled out with a soft moan, stripping the condom with a shaky hand. Jamie moved to her knees on sweetly achy hips as Connor sat up against the pillows, legs spread. He stroked himself as she got situated, and he tucked her hair behind her ears with his other hand.
She took him in her fist. As her lips brushed his crown, his gasp made her shiver. When she closed her mouth over him he groaned, and his hand cupped her head. He didn’t dictate her motions, merely followed them, pushing her hair back when it slipped to hide her face.
At first, all she tasted was the condom. Not a pleasant flavor, and yet everything felt so stark, his desire for this so potent...she couldn’t care. It tasted right, in fact.
“Deeper,” he whispered, more a plea than an order.
She took more of him, as much as she could, and made her mouth hungry, sucking hard. He reacted just as she’d hoped—a sharp breath, a low moan, a tensing of his legs and a twitching of his fingers in her hair.
