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“Yes, for personal reasons,” he says, his hands slipping between my skin and the fabric, and then he pushes them down to my ankles in one smooth swoop. He tucks a hand behind my knee, lifting me one leg at a time so that I can step out of my pants. Then he folds them and sets them aside, his hands gravitating to my hips like a magnet, and he encases both of my buttocks in the splay of his fingers, eagerly kneading them until I begin to gasp.
He spreads his thighs wider across the floor so that he can reach my lower half with more ease and he uses two fingers to minutely lift the hem of my shirt. He looks at my underwear with Pandora’s Box infatuation. I still startle and jolt when he suddenly presses his face into the thin white cotton, covering my warmth with his mouth, and heaving shoulder-swelling breaths in through his nose. My stomach flutters as he grazes over the fabric and then he watches me with glinting eyes as he takes the gusset between his teeth and pulls it away from my skin. I suck in a breath, practically faint. The warmth I had encased between my legs is released from its underwear prison and Tate scents me like an animal, flames burning behind his eyes as he consumes my heat. Then he’s on his feet and backing me up into the mattress.
Once my butt is on the comforter, one palm flat behind my back, I hold up the other hand and he pauses like he’s had training. “You’re fully clothed,” I say.
The box of condoms is tossed onto the bed behind me and his jacket is thrown somewhere near the door. He kicks off his socks and then reaches to the back neck of his t-shirt, pulling it over his body in one fluid swoop. The only thing left on his upper-body is his silver chain with the cross. I shiver and contract at the sight of the tan, meaty muscles rippling up his abdomen andthe hard swell of his labour-pumped biceps. He drops the t-shirt next to me and I have to physically restrain myself from not smashing my face into it to smell his hot scent.
There must be a slight giveaway when my possessed crazy eyes dart between the severe shadows beneath Tate’s pectorals and the black top crumpled next to me, because after a moment Tate picks up the t-shirt and holds it just under my chin. I don’t know what he’s thinking I want to do with it, but every thought that he is having is probably correct. I wrap my hands around his wrist and push my face into the cotton. It’s Heaven. His smell is so male and delicious that I salivate. I inhale like an addict and when I pull back I’m high. Part of me expects him to laugh at me, but when I see his face he’s not laughing. He’s watching me intensely as I enjoy his offering, and he’s unmoveable in his seriousness. This is not a joke to him…Iam not a joke to him.
“Good?” he asks, his voice so low it vibrates.
I nod and he leans in to gently kiss me. He places the t-shirt in my lap and his fingers start unbuttoning my shirt. He un-loops the final button and smoothes the fabric off my shoulders without his lips ever leaving mine, but when he pulls back to look at me a deep grunt is ripped from between his bared teeth.
Did I slip into the baby pink push-up with black lace trim that gave him palpitations three months ago when I was getting dressed tonight? I’m a devious vixen. My usually petite chest is plumped up and heaving – soft, succulent, and tied with a little bow. The snug satin cups catch on the moonlight from the window, winking up at him and sayingunwrap me.
Tate drops to his knees again, mouth open.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he rumbles gruffly. Then he rasps, “Jesus Christ.”
I look at his cross.I’ll say.
Rough hands suddenly grip my ankles until they’re hooked over the expansive breadth of his shoulders, and then Tateleans forwards and crushes his mouth into my flesh. He groans instantaneously as he sucks mouthfuls of softness between his lips, but when he slides his long wet tongue down the inside of the tight cup, brushing my nipple, I’m the one gasping. He uses one palm to plump me up and two fingers to slide the cup down, and then his mouth suctions around the little peak until I’m extended and squirming. He leans back, eyes dazed, and he watches my hips rub despairing little circles up his chest. He puts one hand on my hip, feeling my body buck, and his fingers dig into my skin, unyielding. When I make a noise to regain his attention he brings his face to mine and lets me tug at his bottom lip with a sharp little bite.
“Fuck,” he grunts out as he unclasps my bra from behind. At least I know what he’s thinking about. He pulls the bra from my chest and, as soon as I’m free, he massages my breasts in two rough palms. “That’s my girl.”
I slam backwards onto the bed and he rises to his feet.
The long leather strap of his belt slides through the buckle until it’s slapping open against the loops in his jeans. He presses the button through the opening and drags down the zip before pushing the denim just below his hips. I take in the shadow he’s casting through his boxers and lose a couple million brain cells. He looks like he’s about to rough me up in a barn. Better yet, he looks like he’s about to screw me in the workshop. Him in sawdust-covered denim, surrounded by his drills; me in fluffy bed socks, over a table he’s just made.
I tell him that, and then his boxers come down too.
He pulls out the entire length of his hardened muscle, his fist gripped around the thickness near the coarse hair at the base, and he keeps it tightly clenched as he readjusts the heavy sac behind it. Then he rubs his thumb over the slick domed head, flushed dark in contrast to his abdomen, and I think I choke on my own spit. My eyes flash up to his.
For some reason I think that he’s waiting for me to say something so I manage in a strangled voice, “Is that for me?”
He gives me a bashful smile, tan cheekbones glowing rose-red, and an ache spreads through my chest.
I sit up on my knees, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him as sweetly as I can. I can feel the shy heat on his face and throat as I hold him. It makes me pull him in tighter, smoothing my softness into him until he’s assured.
His hands are splayed across my back, covering me in his warmth. “I forgot to get lube, baby,” he admits in a quiet voice, his brow taut with regret.
I rub my inner thighs together. “I think we’ll manage,” I say, and my breath hitches when he checks that I’m not lying.
He swallows heavily. “Wow.”
I’m about to say “I know” but it turns out that his sentence wasn’t finished.
“I’m going down on you,” he says, in a voice so deep that my stomach clenches, and he sinks onto his haunches with his arousal on full display.
“I should get a shower first,” I say, a little bit panicked as his thumb draws the gusset to the side. It’s not as if he hasn’t already smelled me but-
“But that defeats the whole point,” he whispers, and then he presses his lips to my centre.
I’m gently eased backwards, arched, tilted, spread. Warm hands cuff and encase my ankles, then they move firmly behind my knees, and he eases his tongue into my most secret parts, lapping and sucking in tender adoration. My stomach is blazing and my heartbeat is embarrassingly loud. He makes a deep, worshipful sound and I stop breathing entirely.
“Tate,” I whisper as quietly as possible, in an attempt to veil my whimper.
He makes a long groan that shoots straight up to my womb and he pushes his tongue harder against me. “Say my name again,” he murmurs, but when the rough palm of his hand presses and rotates hard against my blushing nub I’m no longer capable of speech.
