The Lumberfox (Geekrotica)

by Lovelace, Ava

  In that instant, she had to see all of him, and she reached down his back for the hem of his tee, yanking it up and over his head with his help. As it slipped off his arm, she could see her own wetness gleaming on his finger and in his beard where she'd dampened the thin material. As he set back to his work, sliding his finger in through the side and playing with her clit, she ran her hand down his back, a rippling canvas of muscle and hard curves. When she hit his jeans, she slipped her hand in under the waistband and inside his boxer briefs, caressing the curve of his ass and around to his hipbone.

  “What about you...” she started.

  He spoke directly into her cleft. “Only you. Enjoy it.”

  So she did.

  It was a wondrous thing, the sensations invading her eyes and hand and pussy as the fire crackled gently and the room warmed perfectly to where she couldn't figure out where her skin ended and the air began. She was concentrating so hard on the soft skin of his butt that she gasped when he moved her panties fully aside and slicked his tongue across her, broad and wet and hungry. He pried her thighs apart gently, his finger circling for a moment before pushing into her with deliciously elegant focus. He didn't stop until his knuckles pressed into the soft flesh, his tongue urging her to open more as his finger pulled back out with the same infinite slowness. Like a flawless machine he built speed, finger working in and out and tongue lapping, licking, tasting, pressing, pushing her into a rhythm she would have been helpless to fight, even if she'd wanted to.

  Goddamn it, she didn't. She spread her knees wider and tilted her head back, eyes closed, to savor every second. He didn't ask what she liked or wanted, didn't stare at her nervously, didn't shy away from any touch. No, Ryon drank her in like a shot of his favorite Scotch and seemed to know exactly what to do and when and how, as if he could read her mind and heart by the juice dripping down his finger.

  She could feel it building now, her breath ratcheting up and her back arching as his rhythm sped up and his finger pushed into her and pulled out with more urgency, curling at just the right moment. Teeth gritted and feet flexed, thighs burning and stomach muscles clenched, she arched up and cried out, riding the wave as long as she could, as long as he held her there, captive between mouth and palm, drawing it out like the last note of a favorite song.

  When she opened her eyes, he was watching her intently, his face pillowed on her belly. His pupils were dilated, his mouth wet with her juices. And damned if he didn't manage to look both utterly tranquil and completely smug, like a Zen master who'd finally solved the koan and wouldn't tell anyone else the answer.

  She was about to say something silly when the oven timer went off. Ryon jumped to his feet and jogged away, and Tara was surprised that although his arms and shoulders were completely inked, his back was still a blank canvas. Smiling to herself, she considered how much fun it would be when he saw hers. The oven opened and closed, and she realized that the air was perfumed with the scent of baking chicken. As her stomach growled and her inner muscles continued to echo the shudders of her climax, she sat up and grabbed his button-up shirt. It was a little big for her, but it made her feel damn sexy, buttoned low and hanging just over her butt.

  “Smells delicious.” She sat at one of the stools and dragged a finger over the star-like sparkles in the black granite.

  “Lot of that going around,” he said with a grin. “I'm never washing my oven mitt again.”

  Both his hands were covered in thick oven mitts as he lifted the top of a Dutch oven and dragged his nose through the steam. Tara grinned to herself, realizing that being rear-ended by a hot chef was possibly the smartest thing she'd ever done. She felt a foot taller and as languid as if she'd spent the day sunbathing at the beach. Watching Ryon plate the quartered chicken and ladle up glistening, caramelized veggies was like watching a man play an instrument he loved like a woman, and she let herself consider, for just a moment, what it would be like to come home to something like this every day instead of her Ikea-fied, Marimekko-splattered apartment and aloof, heterochromatic cat.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  She blinked and turned her attention back to reality and found him holding out a steaming bit of chicken on the end of an elegant fork.

  “You looked far away.”

  Nearly drooling, she opened her mouth and took the bite, eyes rolling back in her head.

  “I was daydreaming about chicken,” she said, and it was only half a lie—because 'cock' was another word for 'chicken ' , after all. It was pretty awkward, telling a one-night stand and pity Snowpocalypse host that you wanted him to feed you post-coital chicken every night, piece by piece while you wore nothing but his shirt and your underwear.

  “This one's easy. Nothing but salt and heat, seriously. You should see what I can do when I'm trying.”

  With a grin, he slid a plate over to her and went to fetch their glasses and pour more wine, this time a cold white from the fridge. Thankfully, he also provided a tall glass of ice water, which she gratefully tossed back. As he settled down on a stool beside her, she smiled at the easy way he held his fork.

  “Eat,” he said. “I know you're hungry.”

  So she did. And he did. It was like that scene from Lady and the Tramp, but his nose was wet with her climax instead of spaghetti sauce. He kept his fork in his left hand the whole time, while she switched hers back and forth while stripping meat from bones. She ate one thing at a time, and he stacked a bit of potato, a bit of carrot, a bite of chicken on the fork first. The skin was already gone from his chicken, and when she left hers on the plate, he said, “Do you mind?” and ate the whole damn thing. Tara was floored at how comfortable it all was, how homey, and for the first time, she realized that she didn't want the snow to end. She didn't want to head out the door in her sweater, nod goodbye to Carl in the lobby, and trudge through the slurry snow to her dented Jeep.

  No, she wanted the snowstorm to keep going and going and going, long enough for her to make Ryon Brubaker fall in love with her. And make her come like that a thousand more times.

  He finished his last bite, perfectly timed to leave nothing but bones on the plate. Hoping that their night wasn't over, Tara didn't eat as much as she would've liked to. Hell, she could always eat cold chicken leftovers out of the fridge later, if she got hungry. Ryon cleared their plates and fussed in the fridge, coming back with a plate of cored strawberries and a jar of Nutella.

  “Ooh, dessert!” she said, but he swerved away from the island and walked down the dark hall.

  “Bring the wine,” he called, and she refilled their glasses and followed him, bursting with curiosity. She felt practically wanton. Considering that everything he'd initiated so far had been a sensory explosion of one sort or another, she already trusted that whatever he'd planned was going to be fantastic. And interesting, which counted for a lot.

  He had one candle lit as she stood in the doorway, a wine glass in each hand. Beside him was a queen platform bed covered with a coverlet meant to look like fur and headed with puffy white pillows. The plate of fruit and chocolate waited carefully at the foot. When Ryon stepped back, three candles of different heights lit the twilight dark room, glowing warm and throwing dancing shadows on warm, gray walls.

  Ryon sat on the bed and leaned back into the pillows, arms behind his head and abs rippling above his jeans.

  “You remember the safe word, right?”

  Jesus, those words made her wet all over again. She felt like a late summer peach, and she wanted him to dig his thumbs in deep. All she could do was lean against the doorway and nod.

  “Say it now, and I'll get the guest room ready, lend you some pajamas, and tuck you in. No worries, no weirdness. I'll even make you breakfast in the morning. Totally your choice.”

  “Or?”

  He grinned and scratched the trail of hair down his stomach.

  “Or we can visit a galaxy far, far way. In my pants.”

  She doubled over laughing, the wine sloshing onto th
e wood floor.

  “You did not just say that.”

  “What, like you own making jokes during moments of sexual tension? I believe we had a deal, and I just transgressed. So either Wookiee out or get over here and punish me.”

  Every step felt like a mile, and she took a sip of wine to fortify her journey across the vast plain between the door and the bed where he waited for her, already getting hard, judging by the bulge in his jeans. She walked around to his side of the bed, knowing that the die was cast, and he spun to sit and face her, feet on the floor and knees spread. His hands traveled up from her ankles, tracing the curves of her calves and the subtle sweetness of the insides of her knees and the certain swells of her thighs.

  When his fingers found the hem of his shirt, hanging low past her ass, he bit his lip and whistled low. Cupping her hand with his, he brought the wine to his lips and sipped, then took both of the glasses and placed them on the table, out of harm's way.

  “There's entirely too much shirt here. I already won this prize.”

  She wisely said nothing.

  With a sly smile, Ryon reached up and undid the buttons, one by one, looking into her eyes the whole time as if daring her to say anything. When it was undone all down the front, he gave the sleeves a gentle tug, and it fell down around her like sea foam around Aphrodite.

  His eyes dragged down her form like a sculptor staring at a block of marble, noting every possibility and anxious to dig deeper. He caressed her belly with one hand, pressed his thumb into her belly button and let it rest there.

  “Wait. I have a better idea.”

  “You're not drinking wine out of my navel.”

  He looked down, chuckling. “Damn. You're good. Have a last sip if you want it and come here.”

  Tara slugged down the rest of the cool wine and felt it immediately go to her head, where it made fast friends with the yearning need she had for his hands to be on her again. He drank his as well, his eyes glued to her skin. When both of the glasses were safely on the bedside table, he stood, scooped her up, and gently laid her out on the bed, careful not to overturn the plate of fruit and chocolate. She was at a slight incline, her head on his piled pillows.

  “Hold on,” he said, and she stretched out and luxuriated on the soft coverlet as he went to his closet and came back with a tie.

  Before Tara could ask why they needed formalwear, he had tied the silk around her eyes as a blindfold. She could see out below it, just a little bit... until he adjusted it. And then she was in darkness. As she'd never been nearly naked and blindfolded before, she was overtaken with a sudden rush of panic and fear, but then Ryon's hands were on her, stroking the curves of her like he was gentling a horse. And it worked, as she let herself relax back down and adjusted her nerves to the sensation of not knowing where she'd be touched next.

  “I'll be back in a second,” he said, and she felt cold and fearful until his bare feet sounded on the wood floors and he sat back down beside her.

  With her eyesight blocked , Tara's other senses were on high alert, and she smelled the chocolate before it brushed her lips, dry and cool.

  “What is that? Not Nutella.”

  “Something better. Truffles. You don't have any allergies, do you?”

  She licked her lips and shook her head no. When he held it to her mouth again, she bit down, flavor exploding on her tongue. Lavender and coconut and dark chocolate; it was insanely complex and delicious, and she rolled it around in her mouth before swallowing. When she opened her mouth again, he kissed her, deep, and it was mind-blowing, the taste and scent and warmth and wetness of his tongue in her mouth, still redolent of chocolate.

  He withdrew and brought a strawberry to her lips, the sweet fruit in perfect counterpoint to the chocolate. After a sip of wine, he fed her another truffle, this one spiced with cayenne and bourbon vanilla. She swallowed and smiled, and when he kissed her , her lips felt bee-stung and swollen in the most delicious, hungry way. As his tongue darted around her mouth, his hand caressed her thigh, a finger sliding into her panties to stroke her in time with his tongue. All she saw was darkness, but she felt every touch, above and below, quivering with the intensity of her response and wetter than the wine he offered her directly from his mouth to wash down the peppery aftertaste.

  “Oh my God. How do you do that?”

  He chuckled. “Tasting is my life. It's nice to experiment on someone else, though.” His finger curled up into her, exploring deeper. “Good to see the results, too. I think you like it.”

  “Well, every girl likes chocolate.”

  He tsked, his hand stealing around her back to unhook her bra. One by one, he slipped the straps down, freeing her heavy, round breasts. To her grand satisfaction, his finger quickly resumed its plunging and was, in fact, joined by another finger, filling her perfectly but still not enough. His lips closed around first one nipple and then the other, a low moan in his throat. She felt him move away, her nipples cool without his mouth, and then something strange happened: he smeared... Nutella? On her nipples. And then licked it off, and the sensation of his devouring her combined with his fingers working in and out of her down below started the first fine pulses of what was bound to be a phenomenal orgasm, waiting just over the horizon.

  She'd never felt anything like it—the sensory explosion of heavy, slick chocolate being licked off her sensitive flesh. Sliding down, she moaned and reached for him, needed to touch him as he touched her.

  “Don't you owe me a pair of pants?” she said in between gasps.

  “Later,” he said between sucking and licking. “There's something else I want to try.”

  With one last pull on her nipple, he moved away again, this time withdrawing his finger, a loss she felt sorely and one she was too shy to address on her own. God, she wanted him to fill her up completely. The suspense was killing her... and heightening the effect of every touch. She'd never been with a man who drew sex out so long, wanted so much to please her and drive her mad. Even though she'd already had one orgasm, she wanted more. Much more. But now. Right now. And he wasn't obliging, which made her itch all the more for it.

  His footsteps approached the bed, and the next thing she felt was a tantalizing vibration outside her panties, barely touching her lips, and her body jerked in surprise. Was that... Han Solo, the long forgotten vibrator she'd left under her clothes in the other room? She was half mortified, half intrigued, and completely turned on by the amazing jolts of pleasure shooting through her as he caressed her with it, moving it gently up and down the thin satin of her panties.

  “Is that mine?” she asked between shudders.

  “Of course. You buy something like that in the morning, you might as well use it that night, right? I've never played with one before, but...”

  He hit an extra sensitive place, dipping it between her lips, and she whimpered and bucked, cutting him off.

  “But it seems to have its uses.”

  He changed the angle, and she gasped and squirmed.

  “Oh my God. That is... insane.”

  The pressure backed off. “Are you saying you've never used one of these before?”

  Tara was already flushed, but now she was overcome with shyness and fortunately too hot and bothered to do much about it other than moan, “No. First time.”

  “Can I ask why you got it?”

  It took her a minute to answer, and he filled the time by sucking on her nipples as she came dangerously close to breaking apart in a thousand quivering pieces. Only when he pulled Han away from her sensitive clit did she find the words to say, “Never had an orgasm during sex. Trouble finding my G-spot. Wanted to do some research.” And then she moaned and wiggled, trying to get back to the place she'd just been. Amazing, how complete darkness lent her courage while utter lust gave her a voice. She'd never spoken up about her needs before—not like this.

  “In between me and him,” Ryon said, “I bet we can fix that.”

  Her breath was ratcheting up, almost panting now,
and she could feel that with just a little penetration, just a little more nipple play, she would come all over the damn place. But instead of helping her reach that peak, Ryon pulled away and opened the bedside table drawer. She heard the wrinkle of foil and was more glad than ever for the anonymous darkness of the blindfold that made everything feel even more amazing while sparing her the awkward sights that made her blurt silly things instead of feeling fantastic ones. Condoms, in Tara's experience, had always been an uncomfortable topic, and she often experienced discomfort during sex. Judging by how sopping wet she was and how very considerate Ryon had been up until now, she thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. It was like he could read her mind. The boy was truly a Jedi on the streets and a Sith in the sheets.

  “You're not going to—” he started.

  “We're not going to talk about the denizens of Kashyyyk,” she murmured, reaching out a hand for whatever part of him she could touch and finding hard abs and those delicious hip bones she'd been drawn to earlier.

  “Goddamn, woman. You're so sexy when you talk geek.”

  She could sense Ryon hovering over her, feel the warmth and tension in his body as he ducked down to kiss her, long and soft and hard, all at the same time. His mouth tasted of chocolate and wine, and the kiss was all too brief. Ever so gently, he stripped off her panties and put the vibrator in her hand.

  “I want you to turn over on your belly and pleasure yourself with this while I try to make you come as many times as possible. Does that sound like a plan?”

  She obligingly rolled over, face down on the soft bed.

  “Punch it, Chewie,” she murmured, utterly lost and outside of herself and anxious to see if he could possibly live up to the expectations he'd set and that she'd been imagining ever since he slid into her Jeep in the snow and wouldn't quite release their introductory handshake.