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 darken 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.