by Anne Marsh
Much.
“Not a thing,” she says confidently, but then jumps at nothing, showering forks all over the floor. The clatter’s loud enough that you’d think a one-man band just exploded or something. The move, however, puts her right in my arms. Her amazing tits brush my chest, and now I’ve got firsthand evidence that she opted out of wearing a bra today. There’s a whiff of something citrus, too. Her shampoo, maybe, or lotion. Either way, she smells like she belongs on my menu. She’s lunch and I should absolutely eat her up. And out. Fuck, yeah.
She slides her hands up my arms and over my shoulders, linking them around my neck. If she’s omniscient and on board with my dirty plans for her, I’m the happiest man alive.
“You liked kissing me?” Not stopping for an answer, she abandons the forks and walks me toward the side door, her thighs pressing into mine with each step she takes. I have no idea where we’re going but I’ll let her lead in this little dance we’ve got going on. “The other day?”
I’d kiss her anywhere, anytime. I set my hands on her hips and let her steer me outside. I’d even be up for sex in public at this point because my dick’s that damned hard.
No point in beating around the bush. “You know I did.”
I have the feeling my mouth is opening and shutting in a troutlike fashion I’ll regret later. Something about Sarah Jo knocks me off balance, starting with the unexpected offer coming out of her mouth. Apparently, she isn’t waiting for my answer, however, because her fingers walk up my neck, find my ear like she owns it, and just like that I’m even harder. I definitely want to do that again.
And her. Performing wicked, naughty sex acts on Sarah Jo’s willing body is high on my to-do list right now.
“My shift is over,” she announces.
Does that mean what my dick is praying it does? Could be she’s just making awkward conversation or is leading up to abandoning me and my hard-on, but it’s hard to not be hopeful.
“Mine too,” I growl. Meant that shit to come out as a whisper, something soft and teasing, but the blood’s abandoned my brain and nothing about me is smooth and easy. Sarah Jo’s fucking gorgeous, and she’s got me so hot for her that I’m about to spontaneously combust. You think I should be romantic about this? Come up with some heartfelt compliments and do the woo? I’d like to, but my dick is in overdrive and this is so not what I thought would happen when I followed Sarah Jo into the cafeteria. I was planning on a beer and some dancing of the fully-clothed variety. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a woman who would kiss me in front of an entire fire camp would also make it clear what the next step in our not-relationship should be. I like that she’s not afraid to show me what she wants.
She dances me straight out the side door and into open air, executing a clever little twist that reverses our positions so I’m once again between her and the parking lot. Are you confused? So am I. Not sure if this is really about sex or not, but I can’t help hoping. Which makes me an even bigger dick than I already am because if she’s scared or worried about shit, I shouldn’t be taking advantage of her.
I’m still wrestling with my inner good guy (FYI he’s fucking losing), when she stops. Inner Good Guy abruptly comes over to the evil sexy hook up side when she goes up on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder, her pussy rubbing against my dick as she turns my body into her own personal ladder. “You know what’s inside that cabin? Is it open?”
She points. I turn my head and look. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have a conversation about who gives orders and who gets them.
Typically, my days start and end with the fire cache housed in the rundown wooden cabin at my back. Forty feet by forty, the one-room cabin is stuffed full of ordered supplies and twelve-packs of tools half-broken into, cardboard boxes and piles, piles, and more piles. When I’d opened the cache at the start of the summer, I discovered that someone had gone crazy with an ancient label-maker, sticking precisely lettered strips of black-and-white everywhere, although no amount of labels could ever corral the mess of Pulaskis and axes, sleeping bags and hard hats. Everything has been ordered in by the caseload and in multiples—and then left to explode everywhere.
“Supplies,” I growl out, maneuvering her a little closer. Her hips are the perfect fit for mine—we slot together like two pieces in a sexy puzzle. But she’s asked me a question, so I try to concentrate. Supply depot is definitely too fancy a term for what lies inside that cabin. More like dumping ground or organizational nightmare. Maybe, if there were fewer fires, I’d give a damn. And maybe pigs will fly.
She beams. “So it’s empty.”
If you count metal shelves crammed with crap empty, then, yeah. Totally empty.
She bounces against me, and turns up the wattage on her smile. I’m pig enough to ignore the forced cheer because holy fuck, the bounce move slides her pussy up and down the front of my jeans yet again, and I’m in unexpected danger of going off like a rocket.
She pats my chest. “Let’s go in.”
What the lady wants, the lady gets. I’m an absolute fucking gentleman like that. Possibly, I nod like a bobblehead because something about Sarah Jo short-circuits the thinking portions of my brain. Or maybe it’s just that all available blood has stampeded south of my belt where there’s a whole lot of happy and turned on going on.
She takes charge again, not waiting for my answer. That’s fine. The only thing my mouth is good for right now is kissing and licking. Possibly also biting, moaning, and loving her good. My body doesn’t mind the Sarah Jo takeover one bit. On the contrary, my dick jumps right to attention and my feet move doubletime. She sure is sexy. She slaps her hands against my shoulders, pushing me faster because she’s impatient. I agree. Getting naked and closer is high priority. I move.
When my back hits an immoveable wall, I consider and then discard the idea of just picking her up and banging her against it. Wall sex is amazing, and she’s so tiny that I could hold her up for hours. On the other hand, doing it for hours would put us on full display for the hungry hordes, and that has to violate about a hundred different HR rules. Might be a health code violation as well.
Since I like my job, I shove my hand down, feeling around the rough timbers for the doorknob. She takes charge of that, too, reaching around me, her fingers brushing against my ass as she pushes the door open.
And then she fucking shoves me inside.
Okay, so I go. Willingly. Apparently, I’ve answered my own question, and I’m up for a repeat of yesterday’s kiss. I’ve tried being a responsible, mature adult and asking her what’s wrong—because, clearly, something out there in the camp has spooked her bad—but she’s made it clear that she doesn’t want words. She went for my goodies instead, and I’m so on board with that plan. I’m even willing to let her sit in the driver’s seat. Temporarily.
Yesterday’s kiss was smoking hot, even with an appreciative audience. She apparently enjoyed kissing me because this unexpected lunch date in the storage cache proves I’m more than a dare and a drive-by kiss. Clearly, she’s ready to give me a second shot, so screw Hunter and his claims that I was a throwaway and a convenient five minutes. I’m getting me at least an hour today—and a promise of more.
She two-steps me deeper into the cabin, her tongue tracing my lips.
“Making me work for it, Pick?” She whispers the teasing question against my mouth, and I smile. She has no idea.
“You’re always welcome, honey.”
My ass bumps up against a desk shoved along the wall, and my dick suggests we take full advantage of the horizontal surface. Good plan. I sweep one hand beneath me, ignoring the clatter of office supplies biting it. I’ll sign on for pickup detail. Later. Right now, I park my ass down and pull her between my legs.
It’s my turn to kiss her.
She doesn’t make it easy. I don’t mind the unexpected hookup, but the cabin isn’t aces in the romance department. Chockablock full of card tables and shelves loaded down with extra handles and oil, wedges and spray pa
int, the few visible inches of the walls are papered with less-than-sexy park posters. A graffiti-covered Smokey the Bear stares at us, surrounded by fire road signs and maps bristling with pushpins. Those are souvenirs and victories right there, half covered with flight maps and helicopter schedules. I’ve been in here hundreds of times, and it’s never looked so good as it does now that she’s here with me.
“Sarah Jo,” I say roughly, threading my fingers through her hair. Her name comes out half plea, half demand. We’re still fighting to see who gets to be in control of what’s happening here, and for the first time in my life, losing doesn’t seem so bad.
“Don’t talk.” She leans in closer, her tits squashed up against my chest. She has to feel the massive boner I’ve got for her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she gives a little wriggle, like she’s checking my stuff out and so far, so amazing. Her words trail off in a little moan-sigh.
“You don’t want to slow things down?” Asking the question sucks, but informed consent is non-negotiable. Once I get the verbal go-ahead, I’ve got plans to strip off her clothes, lay her down on the floor, and go at her despite our potential audience outside the cabin. I’d be happy to draw you a flowchart, but showing you will be so much better.
“Not a chance,” she growls. “I’ve decided that life is too uncertain not to take what I want, and you’re first on my list.”
I admire her priorities. Better yet, she slaps her hands down on the wall behind the desk, pinning my head between her palms. This is new. I take a second to appreciate my position. Usually I’m on top and in charge, but I’m willing to let her hold the reins for a moment. It helps that she’s looking at me like I’m the center of her universe, and she’s in a mood to explore.
Sure enough, she eliminates all remaining distance between us, pulling us closer together until there’s not an inch of space left. I can’t help groaning, which makes her smile. Naughty girls get what they have coming to them, and I have plans for Ms. I-Started-This Sarah Jo. Needing to touch her, to feel her hair, her skin, down her back, and over the soft crease of her hip, I reach for her. Behaving myself is no longer an option.
“See?” Her eyes light up with humor even as her fingers find my shoulders and squeeze. I squeeze back, but since my hands are on her spectacular ass, it’s her turn to groan. “Talking’s over-rated.”
The lady is always right. Have I mentioned how much I believe that? She follows up the groan with a whimpering sound as I touch her more. Running my palms over her perfect curves. Pulling her closer, sliding my fingers beneath the hem of her shirt because I need bare skin, now.
She’s hungry for me, too. The gentle shoulder squeeze turns dirty, her hands sliding slowly lower, yanking me close. She’s not tall. She has to tip her head back to make eye contact, but we’ve got enough light, even with the door shut, that I can see her clearly. She gives my face another once over, and then smiles. Her hands move. Skim over my shoulders. Down my arms until her fingers tangle with mine.
She makes me feel… Christ, I’ve never deliberately set a fire outside working hours, but I suddenly know how an arsonist must feel. It feels so goddamned good to go up in flames, to make her burn.
“I’m right here.” My voice sounds rough. “Right where you put me, babe.”
She grins. “I’ll make sure you don’t mind.”
Mission. Accomplished. She sends her hands roaming over my body like she wants it all right now. Over my shoulders and down my chest, yanking up my T-shirt and smoothing her fingers over my abdomen. Slowly because Sarah Jo’s a masterful tease. Yeah, it’s that good. She pulls me into her embrace and then our lips meet and we’re devouring each other, hungry and urgent.
Turns out Sarah Jo doesn’t take orders. Or directions, suggestions, or hints. Her tongue strokes mine boldly, taking my mouth exactly as she pleases while her hands go on a wicked, wicked walkabout. I have no complaints, but no way I get mine before she does. It’s that gentlemanly code of conduct I can’t quite seem to shake. Fortunately, although I’m not more determined, I am both bigger and stronger. I flip her around, laying her back on the table in one smooth move, pinning her hands.
“Kisses first,” I whisper roughly.
“Pick.” She gasps my name, trying to reach for me. I’d like to give in, give her what we both want, but I have to make this the most amazing fucking first time ever because I already know I want a second and a third chance. Is a million too ambitious? Because I can’t imagine not wanting more Sarah Jo over and over.
So I hold her hands over her head. “Ladies first.”
Before she can protest, I let go and drop to my knees in front of her. If she wants kisses, I’ll give her kisses.
7
PICK
Pick kisses his way down my body, a hotshot on a mission. God, I could watch him for hours—and not just because he’s sporting a most impressive erection. His new position—going down on me, be still my quivering hooha—lets me appreciate the downright enormous ridge beneath his jeans as he drops lower. It’s my good fortune that the man’s built to scale. The hard length presses first against my belly, my thigh, then is gone all together. Well crap. Now that he’s let go, I try to steer him with my hands, wanting his face back within kissing distance, but he gently brushes me away.
“Let me make this good,” he says. I’m dying, and he’s laughing.
“It’s your job to put out fires,” I point out, sounding downright freaking virtuous. “Chop chop.”
He outright laughs this time. God, I love that raspy sound, half amusement, half growl. “You got to trust me.”
“Now,” I demand, because this is my carpe diem moment and he’s withholding orgasms, but there’s no hurrying Pick up. He’s as methodical and thorough about this as he is about fighting fire.
While he explores the soft curve of my belly—God, I should have bothered more with sit-ups—his hands discover my breasts and rub over the cotton T-shirt, thumbing my nipples in a deliciously rough caress. You think he could take a hint from the words embroidered over my boobs, but maybe reading isn’t on his mind right now. Torturing me is. The best, most delicious, sinfully erotic torture mankind ever devised. He teases and pinches, rubs and pulls, until my nipples seem to have a one-way connection to my clit, and everything in me is pulling tighter and tighter in the best possible way.
And he’s in absolutely no hurry at all, damn him. He devours me, like I’m the tastiest dish on today’s menu. As if he’s starving—for me. He strips off my shirt, licking, kissing, and nipping his way from one boob to the other. He likes what he sees, and he loves what he’s doing, and me? I just melt in his big, capable hands.
Then finally, finally he’s moving all the way down, his head dipping lower as his broad shoulders pushed my thighs apart. For a moment, I stiffen, not quite certain how far I really want to take this, but he pushes gently and I give, leaning up on my elbows, watching him. He’s freaking amazing, so screw resistance, self-control, or discipline. I’m going to eat him up like he’s the biggest, baddest, most sinful piece of cake ever.
I think he’s in full agreement with me, too. He eases the skirt up over my knees and thighs until the fabric pools on my stomach.
“Watch,” he orders.
He didn’t just say that, did he? I just want to come, not reenact Fifty Shades of Grey. I don’t like orders or not feeling in control. But then he blows lightly, sending shivers through me. Okay, so now isn’t the time to bring up my issues.
He doesn’t wait for me to agree or disagree, just runs a thumb over my thong. The feel of that light touch drives me crazy. Makes me groan. I didn’t plan this, I swear, not until I spotted the car driving up, and even then I was running on instinct and relief. I just wanted to grab everything I could before time ran out and my life was game over. Thank God my panties are good ones, a sea foam kind of color, the edges trimmed with lace and a perky white bow. He’s staring at them like I’ve got the Sistine Chapel wrapped around my hooha. His eyes d
arken and his breath catches.
“Pretty,” he groans. “You know how badly I want to get underneath those panties, Sarah Jo?”
“Tell me.” That’s my voice that sounds so breathless and out of control. I’d do anything if he’d just keep touching me.
He does. I don’t know if he’s a mind reader, or just as desperate as I am. He drags his thumb down the very center of my panties and I moan.
“The whole fucking mountain could go up in flames right now, and I’d still be right here.” He slides his hands under my butt, lifting me toward his mouth.
I squirm because we’ve got a few logistical issues here. He hasn’t taken the panties off. His fingers cup and curl, teasing and stroking. And yet my panties stay firmly put. I’m giftwrapped for him, and all he’s doing is shaking the package because he knows what’s inside—and is going to make me wait. Damn him.
“What are you doing?” I ask the stupid question because, hello, I need an answer now.
“Wait and see.” He flashes me a grin, the bastard. “If you still have questions in a minute, I’m not doing this right.”
His hands didn’t stop lifting, either. Guess that’s my first clue. I could try wriggling out of them myself but this isn’t the most secure position in the world. He touches me, and I moan again. He leans closer, his shoulders pressing my thighs apart as his mouth skims over my panty-clad center. I want him to lick me. To tongue me hard, to shove his face down, and make me forget about everything bad in the world. He could do it, too.
I’ve never felt like this. No man has ever made me want to have sex so badly. I’ve never been this desperate for an orgasm. And then his mouth… God… his mouth is right there. Pressed against the center of my panties. He’s every bit as good—or as bad—as he’s been promising because I go up in flames. I pull him closer, pleading for more. Or everything. Anything. My reward is a small, secret kiss I feel deep in my core. He has his palms wrapped around my butt cheeks, his fingertips tickling the crease between them and when he inhales, he has to smell me. Instead of being embarrassed, though, I’m aroused.
