Loverboy (Dartmoor Book 5)

by Lauren Gilley

  When he pulled back her eyes were heavy-lidded, her breathing unsteady, her gaze full of the kind of inexperienced desire he’d never had a chance to understand.

  “Kev,” she said, voice shivering, and licked at her lips, leaned in for another kiss.

  He was rock-hard in his jeans. Apparently, the whole sweet virgin thing really did it for him.

  No, that wasn’t fair to her. Whitney did it for him. In every way, all the time, simply by being her.

  He kissed her until it grew sloppy; until their mouths were wet and tender; until she was whimpering and grinding lightly in his lap. When he kissed down the length of her pale throat, she tipped her head back to give him better access, breathing raggedly. He tracing her throbbing pulse with the tip of his tongue, sucked at the little hollow at the base.

  “Kev,” she said again, searchingly, her fingers tangling in his hair.

  “Easy,” he murmured. “We’re gonna go real easy.”

  His fingers made quick work of the small pearl buttons down her shirt, and then he separated the halves, sliding his hands inside the fabric to get to her bare skin.

  She made a little choked sound as he stroked her waist, and he pulled back from her throat to look at her.

  Fine pale skin exposed between the open halves of her black shirt, black, lace-edged bra, her head tipped back, a beautiful line of temptation from the underside of her chin all the way down to the button of her jeans.

  Tango leaned forward and pressed his lips to her sternum, stroked his hands across her back, and sides, and the flat of her belly in gentle, slow passes. “Is this good?” he asked against her skin, fingertips flirting along her ribs. “You okay?”

  “Y-yes.” Her voice came out high and breathless; he could hear the want in it, there was no mistaking that sound. “It’s good. It’s…Kev…”

  “I know, baby.” He ducked his head lower and let her feel the warmth of his breath in the shallow valley between her breasts. His hands migrated upward, slowly – achingly slow, his patience straining – bit by bit, until the pads of his fingers were brushing over her satin bra cups.

  Whitney said, “Oh.”

  “More?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  He cupped her breasts, and even through her bra he could feel her nipples drawing up, the perfect heaviness of the weight in his palms. He traced the hard buds with this thumbs, firm strokes, pressing a little, until he heard another of those sounds leave her lips.

  “More?” he asked again.

  And again: “Yes.”

  He kissed a path across tops of her breasts, first one and then the other, right along the lacy edge of the bra, letting her feel the heat and wetness of his tongue. Lingering a little, thinking about the shape and color of her nipples, wanting them in his mouth.

  He shuddered, and dropped one hand to his lap, pressing down on his cock. He was too wound up, and the whole point of this was slow and lasting, making it good for her.

  Whitney, though, must have had ideas of her own.

  She lifted her hands from his shoulders and shrugged out of her shirt; the fabric whispered as it slid down to the floor.

  Tango pulled back, searching out her face with his eyes.

  She looked flushed, and hungry, and not at all freaked out. Nothing in her gaze said stop, only more.

  He had to swallow before he could speak. “What do you want, baby? I only want to do what you want to.”

  She touched his face, her small warm hands framing his jaw with nothing short of reverence. “I want you to keep going.”

  He circled her throat with one loose hand and pulled her in for another kiss. Messy, wet, tongues sliding. She was getting bolder, more sure of herself, her tongue flexing shyly against his.

  He groaned against her mouth.

  “Good?” she asked against his lips, a touch of doubt in her voice.

  “Fantastic.”

  And it was. It was better than fantastic – it was perfect, the way kissing her was more important than breathing, the way she arched her back and leaned into him.

  Not stopping. No way was he stopping.

  He wrapped his arms around her and laid back across the bed, her slight weight shifting on top of him, her breasts pressing into his chest.

  The slick satin felt nice, but he wanted skin. Nothing but skin.

  Whitney kissed him. When she pressed her damp lips to his, he let his hands slide around her ribs to meet at the clasp of her bra.

  A tug of guilt in his gut froze him in place. Shit, she was so young, and she probably had no idea what she really wanted, and he shouldn’t –

  Whitney broke the kiss with a wet smack and sat up, smiling at him as her hands went back around and she undid the clasp herself. “I’m okay,” she promised, running the straps down her arms, setting the bra off to the side. But she bit at her lip and her shoulders slumped in a show of nervousness, now that she was naked from the waist up.

  Tango looked, because how could he help it? And because she wanted him to, he believed that.

  Her breasts weren’t large, just palm-sized, but they were real, and sweetly shaped, and seeing them bared like this, with her going pink in the cheeks with uncertainty, only confirmed all his theories that every single part of her was gorgeous.

  He sat up, and spanned her narrow back with his hands, her skin satiny against his palms. Her face hovered above his; he heard the soft, desperate sound of her breathing, felt her peaked nipples up high against his chest. He slid one hand up the bumps of her spine, her neck, cupped the back of her head. With his other hand, he reached for her wrist, maneuvered her hand so it was curved around the back of his.

  “Just show me where you want me,” he said, their lips flirting together, the barest touch. “Show me, baby.”

  She gasped a little against his mouth, and her thighs tightened against the outsides of his. Slowly, so slowly, she shifted his hand up the silken stretch of her stomach, up the fretwork of her ribs, and then…there. The soft weight of her breast in his hand.

  He’d always loved women’s bodies, the incredible contrast with his own, the curves and soft places.

  He cupped Whitney in his hand, flicked her nipple with his thumb, and she shivered.

  He was hard to the point of madness. The control it took to touch her like this, to let her lead, was devastating. He could barely breathe and his fingers twitched and he couldn’t imagine what his face looked like; his jaw ached from the tension.

  Whitney leaned into his touch, and his hand tightened automatically. She whimpered again, and her fingers flexed against his, encouraging him.

  It hit him then. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

  “Whit, hold onto me,” he said, and both her hands landed on his shoulders.

  He reached down to the waistband of her jeans, careful to go slow and telegraph the movement so she knew where he was going, letting his knuckles skim down her stomach on the way. When he flicked a glance to her face, he saw that her eyes were on his hands, and that she had her lower lip caught between her teeth again in an unmistakable way. She was okay; she wanted this. Wanted him.

  Tango unfastened her jeans. Eased the zipper down. He could see the waistband of her black panties, the same delicate lace as her bra.

  He teased at the lace with his thumb, back and forth, until her hips shifted. And then he slid his hand inside the open V of her jeans, cupping her sex through the cotton.

  She was damp already, and warm to the touch, even through the material. His brain fizzed and caught and shorted out for a moment, the intimate feel of her drawing on a dozen memories, and a hundred secret wishes.

  “That feels…” she whispered, and brought him back to himself. “God, can you, Kev…”

  “Yeah, baby.” His voice was full of gravel. “I can do that.”

  He stroked her as well as he could within the confines of her jeans, gently, with his fingertips. A steady, light touch across her sex, until the panties were soaked and her hips were shi
fting forward and back.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders and she leaned on him, letting him support her weight as she lost herself in the sensation.

  “Does it feel good?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Yeah…yeah…it feels good…so good…it…ah.”

  He swept the wet fabric to the side and the first contact with her bare, slippery skin caused another brain meltdown.

  Until he heard her say, “Oh, God,” in this quiet, breathy, melted voice, and she surged forward, trying to get closer.

  He put his free hand against the small of her back, encouraging the grinding of her hips, and stroked her. Teased her open, and probed at her entrance.

  “God,” she said again.

  He slid the tip of one finger inside. In and then back out. Again. A teasing little penetration, stretching her the slightest bit, letting her get used to the idea.

  She let her head tip forward, and he felt her chin against his forehead. “Kev, I’ve touched myself before, you know,” she said in a ragged voice.

  The image that put in his mind did dangerous things to his blood pressure. “Shit, you’re gonna make me come in my pants like a teenager.”

  She breathed a strung-out laugh.

  And he slipped his finger in to the hilt.

  “Oh.”

  “Okay?”

  “Oh, please.”

  He set up a steady tempo, thrusting into her with his finger, until they were both panting and damp with sweat. He urged her down onto his hand with the hand at her back, and thrust a little harder, twisting a little, getting her wetter, getting her ready. She was hot as blood, the wetness sliding down over his knuckles, collecting in his palm.

  There wasn’t a single drop of blood left in his head, but he was a professional, damn it. He could, he could…

  He ducked his head and flicked his tongue across her nipple as he added a second finger down below.

  He felt the bite of her nails through his shirt, felt her back bow as she offered her chest to him.

  She had to be so close. It wouldn’t take much more.

  He suckled her nipple into his mouth, delicate teases from his tongue. And with his thumb he found her clit, and pressed.

  She made a wordless sound, a quiet gasp, and she went still. He felt her walls squeeze around his fingers, impossibly tight. And then she was shivering, her hips churning, as she chased the bright sparks of orgasm through to the downward spiral.

  He eased her through it, fingering her, murmuring praise against her breasts.

  She finally slumped against him, spent, arms looped around his neck, her breath dancing through his hair.

  Tango’s immediate urge was to flip her onto her back on the bed, mount her, and fuck her through the mattress.

  Instead, he carefully withdrew his hand from her jeans and brought it up to his face. Which was creepier, but somehow more civilized, by his own sick reasoning. He took his fingers in his mouth, sucked them clean, tasted the faint muskiness of her sex on his tongue.

  “Did you just…?” she started.

  “I’m gross.”

  “No.” Her voice was dreamy, faraway. “You have amazing fingers.” Her own fingers raked through his hair, scratching at his scalp in a way that felt incredible.

  “What about you?” she asked against his temple. Her hand left his hair and moved to his lap.

  He gritted his teeth against the very real prospect of coming the second she made contact through his jeans.

  “I’m okay,” he managed.

  “Let me,” she urged. “I’m not very – I don’t really – you can show me.” He heard the blush in her voice, felt the heat in her cheek as she pressed it to his. “Kev, I want to,” she said when he didn’t respond.

  He shut his eyes, and tried not to think about the weight of her breasts against his arm, her legs still bracketing his hips, the way she’d been so hot inside, so wet for him.

  Her hand closed over the shape of his rigid cock. She pressed at him, lightly, with the heel of her hand.

  “Kev.”

  He let out a deep, defeated breath. “Yeah. Yes. Please. I’m sorry.”

  He hated himself as she leaned back a little, and reached for his fly, worked it open. Hated himself a little more as she reached into the slit of his boxers. Hated himself the most when she had his cock out, and both her small hands wrapped around it in a show of sweet, innocent boldness.

  She sent him a pleading look from beneath her lashes. “Show me?”

  “Here.” He curved his hand around hers, fitted her fingers around his cock. “Like this.”

  He guided her thumb to the head, to the slit and the leaking pre-come there; urged her to spread it down the length of his shaft. Just enough slickness to smooth the way. Her hand was small, and soft, but strong for all that, and it only took a few pumps before she had the hang of it, jacking him steadily, with that little twist at the end he needed so desperately.

  He wanted to hold her, to murmur sweet things in her ear, to be present. But it felt too good. He was too overwhelmed by the knowledge that this was Whitney touching him, finally, when he’d wanted it so much.

  He leaned back on his hands before he collapsed and lifted his hips, rutting into her hand, totally helpless. She watched what she was doing, still a little sex-drunk, her gaze admiring, and reverent, and so many things he couldn’t believe. She swiped her tongue across her bottom lip, and that did it. He came in hot spurts all over her hand, grunting deep in his throat.

  ~*~

  Had that just happened?

  Yeah. It had happened.

  Shit.

  They lay side-by-side on the bed. Whitney’s head rested against his shoulder, her dark hair splayed across his chest.

  He took a lock in-hand, rubbing it between his fingertips. He could have done that for hours, he knew: playing with her hair, listening to her catch her breath, breathing in the smell of her skin. Not just could, but wanted to. He wanted so much more. He wanted everything.

  But…

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She shifted onto her side, the covers rustling, and put her arm across his chest. He felt her breath on his skin, the faint flicker of her eyelashes as she tucked her face into his shoulder. “Don’t be.”

  Eighteen

  Ian’s father had always belonged in a previous century, the sort of father who preferred for his children to be seen and not heard; who took the Times and a glass of brandy in the library every evening; who had a dressing gown; who pecked his wife solemnly on the cheek and eschewed passion, and love, and emotion of any kind. In the evenings, when Ian arrived home from school, he called him in to stand beside his favorite arm chair and report on what he’d learned that day. Father would never take his eyes from his paper, only nod afterward, and say, “Very good.”

  Disappointment had been his default setting. Only exceptionalism could earn his grudging approval. And complete disownment was always a possibility.

  What would Father say, Ian’s wine-addled brain wondered, if he could see his son now?

  Alec was tender and sweet, half-melted in Ian’s arms, clinging to him. His breathing hitched and his skin glowed, flushed pink with arousal. He was beautiful, and willing, and still so innocent, and Ian wanted to devour him.

  It was a wet, sliding, desperate kiss. Ian traced the inner contours of Alec’s mouth with his tongue, mapping all its dark, slippery secrets. He thrust in slowly with his tongue, and then again, fucking his mouth, drawing a low moan up out of his throat.

  Ian cupped the smooth, sharp line of his jaw and pulled back from the kiss with a wet sound, pressing his thumb into the damp curve of Alec’s lower lip. His face. Gorgeous pink cheeks and heavy eyelids, pupils blown.

  After Kev left, it had been a blur of wine, and suppressed tears, and a terrible ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe. Alec had come to him, had slipped an arm around his waist and comforted him. And Ian had launched himself at him. And Alec, sweet Alec, had been
a willing victim. Then it had been a matter of stripping clothes and fumbling to the bedroom, and now here they were, the covers turned down, naked and ravenous.

  “Hands and knees,” Ian told him.

  A notch formed between Alec’s brows. His expression, still hazy with want, tightened a little with doubt. “But…”

  Ian slid a hand down the smooth plane of his belly and found his cock, curled his hand around it and gave it a stroke. “I want you on your hands and knees,” he repeated, a command this time.

  The notch between Alec’s brows deepened. He wet his lips, needlessly, tip of his tongue passing across Ian’s thumb. Ian chose to pretend he didn’t shiver in reaction. He was seasoned, and he didn’t even love this uncertain man-child. His assistant, for God’s sakes. He wasn’t affected. His gut didn’t clench and his cock didn’t twitch, and he didn’t care about that flick of his tongue.

  “No,” Alec whispered.

  Ian stilled; his breath caught. “What did you say to me?”

  “No.” His voice, incredibly, grew stronger. His gaze clearer, bolder than Ian could have imagined. He brought a hand up to push Ian’s hair back, cradling the side of his throat in a gentle grip. “I want you to make love to me.”

  Something happened in Ian’s bloodstream. Surges of cold and hot emotions. His chest tightened. “What did you say to me?” His voice came out raw, wounded, dangerous.

  But it didn’t put Alec off. He leaned in closer, gaze relentless. “I’m here, if you need me. I’m here for you. But I won’t let you put my face in the pillow and pretend I’m him. I don’t deserve that.”

  “Oh no?” Ian asked, his head spinning, his meticulous plans derailing. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  “No,” Alec said, and kissed him.

  The role reversal hit Ian like a slap – in a good way. It was easy to think of Alec as virginal, but that wasn’t true. He’d just been awkward, kind, passive, and still so new to being with men. But this kiss spoke of passion, and skill, and a latent dominance that had Ian’s toes curling in the sheets.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. His good little boy toy was supposed to roll over and put his ass in the air, and let Ian pretend that his world wasn’t hanging by a thread. He wasn’t supposed to slide his tongue between Ian’s lips, or scrape his fingernails across Ian’s nipples, or melt his insides in a matter of seconds.