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Chapter 6
When he heard himself, his bloodstream boiled. Suck my cock. While she worked her magic hands on him, he’d tried hard to resist her. He’d cursed his erection, willed it away, but his stupid dick never budged.
Her eyes turned into turquoise pools. Maybe she didn’t anticipate his request. Maybe she did mean to give him an honest, innocent massage. And his filthy mind begged him to take it one step further. Damn it. He was sick. And turned on.
Silence stretched between them, and her gaze darted between his eyes and his cock. Impatience frustrated him like a stubborn mosquito buzzing around on a hot summer day.
At last, she shoved the sheet off him, and took him into her mouth. Holy fuck. Her mouth was heavenly, her full lips closing over most of him. He expected her to look away, but she kept eye contact, which only worsened his state of mind. A rush of blood shot up his rod. He jerked his head back into the pillow; far too excited. If he kept staring at her, he’d come in a second.
Moaning, she shoved the rest of the sheet to the side, and started to play with his tingling balls.
She stroked his length in tandem with her tongue lapping and swirling around him. This surpassed all the fantasies he’d had with her—the ones he’d stashed away.
She moaned again, and he thrust his fingers into her short, richly textured hair. Massaging her scalp, he held her head so he thrust into her, in and out, mimicking the movement he wanted to do to her pussy. That he would do.
The pressure for release built within him. His stomach contracted, and he couldn’t hold it anymore. His body convulsed, and he didn’t fight the spasms. He spilled into her, and she took all of him. The fact she didn’t hesitate for a second—instead, swallowing his seed and sucking him dry—lit a fire in his heart.
He wanted this woman again, and would have her. Once wasn’t enough. For the past few hours, she’d endured him pushing her away, his roughness, hell, she’d not only let him spank her but she’d suggested it. She sucked him because he’d ordered. Despite their banter, whenever it came to intimacy, she had given him every reassurance he held the upper hand.
She withdrew him from her mouth and said, “You’re delicious.”
No. He wanted to scream he’d been a coward who had treated her like shit for years and who had used Patricia against the attraction he felt for her. First, as a pawn to forget her. Then, as a reason to hate her—or to pretend to hate her—so he would keep far away from Tiffany Burrows.
Shit.
With his heart still racing, he propped himself on his elbows. When he sat up on the bed, she straightened up.
“What do you want me to do now?” she asked.
He held her elbow, then eased her down on the mattress. She moaned.
“Why do you ask?” His gut clenched. If she thought she had to please him, but wasn’t really invested in making love to him, if desire didn’t rule her over all things, he’d walk out.
“Because I want you.”
Relief washed over him, loosening his limbs. “Seems we have something in common,” he said, and removed her pants and underwear. He wished the electricity were on, so he’d get a better view of her delicious curvy body. But he had to make do with the peeks he got from the candles burning on either side of the nightstand, and the flames crackling in the fireplace.
She removed her bra and top, and threw them on the other side of the room. A nervous chuckle escaped her lips, like she didn’t want to show her eagerness.
He scooted over farther on the bed, and traced her body with his hands. She lifted her chin, eyes on him. What a perfect woman. Vulnerability cloaked her like an invisible shield.
He outlined her breasts, which rose and fell, as her breathing became harder. He bit back a smile, anxious to pull those mounds into his mouth. But first, he would touch her and feel her smooth skin and imprint in his memory just how lovely Tiffany Burrows was for him. Because there wouldn’t be any other opportunity.
Once they returned to New York, he’d move forward with his life, and so would she. He couldn’t, in clear conscience, allow himself to have a happy ending with her.
She moaned, and the soft, erotic sound brought him back to the present. All those years he’d denied himself the pleasure of sleeping with her because he’d believed he was a better man. A man who resisted sinful temptations—now, he didn’t want to be that man. He was attaching his pride to a rock, flinging it across a river, and watching it sink.
The hollering from the wind outside increased, and so much snow slapped the window making the thick glass looked like a blank canvas.
Touching didn’t suffice. He needed to taste all of her. Propping his elbows on either side of her, he dipped his head and traced a path of kisses along her soft, long neck. His tongue trailed down her collarbone, and she squirmed, thrusting her hips into him. Trusting him.
Nudging her legs apart with his thigh, he ventured lower… and lower. Yes. Drawing back, he leaned and stared at her thighs. A delicious scent stemmed from them, and he dipped his head to check it out.
With one finger, he made circular movements at the tip of her swollen clit. He heard the rasp of sheets. Her fingers curled around them, her head moving from side to side. Flicking the bud with his thumb, he intensified his claim of her. He circled her folds with his index finger, and her glistening essence coated his flesh. “You’re soaking wet.”
“Aren’t you lucky?”
“Incredibly so, mi amada.” He lowered himself until his head rested in between her thighs. He blew a breath over her skin, and she quivered. A smile formed on his lips.
