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"Destiny," by Zero 7. Had he played the song because of the title? No, this guy wasn't that cheesy. He'd known the song, knew it had a dark urgency to it. The haunting opening strains talked about a woman alone in her hotel room, watching pay channel porn and dreaming of her lover. There was a loneliness to it. It was about desire, not thought. The need for someone to understand her, down to the dark, below-the-soul levels.
So he knew the song. But how did he know it would be the right song for this moment, for her?
He was still leaning over her, his gray eyes studying her with an intensity that suggested . . . not invasion, but as if he was figuring her out. When his gaze finally dropped to her mouth, she had to swallow. As his attention continued to descend, he might as well have put his hands on her, because she felt the weight of his touch in his gaze. He smelled of sweat. Basic earth, male strength.
Men fell short in many ways, but they could sometimes be relied upon for this. He'd just happened on the rare moment when his abilities and her needs were in perfect accord. Lucky him. Lucky her. In this clearing, where he didn't know her name, she'd take it, because he'd done all the right things, made all the right moves, the stages of the dance all male animals had to know to win the willingness of a female. Circling, nonthreatening approach, respectful, but knowing when to switch gears and make the request a demand, bring the force of passion to the mix. It was amazing that humans, supposedly the most intelligent of all species, often fumbled the steps even a field mouse could handle.
As his gaze rose, pinned her again, she gave a bare movemen
t of her head. A nod. Yes. God, yes. But she wouldn't help him. She was tired of orchestrating the whole damn world so it would work the way it should. She wanted to see if someone else could do it.
Usually, she felt compelled to direct. Touch me here, squeeze that. Kiss me more. But when sex was like choreographing a major Broadway production, it was too exhausting to be worth the bother, really.
Putting his hands on her waist, he spanned it, his hands over the tight lacing. Then he moved upward, slow, not as if he was doing it to please her, but as if he was learning her for himself, which pleased her more.
Slow, slow, he held her firmly as his strong fingers moved up over her rib cage. This was a man who not only knew how to touch women, but that each one needed to be handled uniquely, an important component of the foreplay.
As he reached her breasts, he stopped, his forefinger and thumb fitting beneath each.
She wanted to draw a deeper breath, but couldn't. She had to keep herself calm. Even. She could do that. If she could do it right now, she could do it anytime. She wouldn't touch him. That would help. But Jesus, the body this man had. She wanted to trail her fingers down his sides, feel the prominent ribs that racked into the muscular abdomen, play at the snug band of the cycling shorts which showed the sleek curve of a sizable erection. Hadn't she heard somewhere they didn't wear any underwear under those? When she made herself look up, she couldn't prevent a groan as he cupped her breasts, squeezing just enough so they swelled farther out the top of the corset. Not gentle. He didn't hurt her, but he conveyed his desire. The dangerous spark in his gaze at her groan told her he could get a lot rougher, if that was the direction the tone went. He didn't mind getting down and dirty as needed to make it blow-your-mind sex.
If she could get all that from one look, she was still fantasizing. But that was okay. For once, she wasn't going to scale back her expectations just because they appeared unrealistic. If he did everything perfectly, she'd know she was dreaming, no harm done. Even if he did a couple things wrong, she still wouldn't be tossing him out anytime soon.
Then his hand went to the first hook of the corset.
Freeze fantasy.
Automatically, Cass caught his wrist with her free hand, an unspoken direction. That needs to stay on.
The god toyed with it, his fingers shifting beneath her grip. She suspected he could make short, deft work of the undergarment. It was an effort to hold on to her resolve, because she wanted those long fingers, wanted to explore the shape of his knuckles, the lines between them, the broad shape of the palm. One more moment, and she knew she'd give in.
Then he gave her an inclination of his head, a twist of the sensuous lips. Not capitulation. He was just letting her have her way. For now. It stoked the need in her, and pulling her hand away from his flesh didn't ease it.
Now one large hand slid back down to her waist. The other closed around her wrist and withdrew the hand she had in her panties. The motion dragged her fingers over her clit, and that, combined with his intent, was like electrical current. Bringing her damp fingers to his mouth, he took them between his lips, sucked them in deep.
A man who took the reins from a woman in a sexual situation so effectively that it left no doubt who was in charge. That was what she'd wanted, right?
"Ah . . ." Her body undulated on the seat, a sinuous emulation of what it wanted, before she could stop it. Those full lips were firm and soft at once, his mouth hot, teeth nipping, laving at fingers covered with her scent. As he drew them out, he lowered her wet hand, as if he was going to place it on his chest.
Too much temptation, the idea of trailing damp fingers over his muscled flesh, marking him. She closed her fingers into a ball, drew it back to herself.
Again he allowed it, watching her closely all the while. The music had changed once again. Back to Foreigner's "Hot Blooded." It sparked a fire in her, such that she raised a leg, intending to place the sole on his tempting chest and shove him back, force him just to watch her. Instead, in a smooth motion, he closed his hand on her ankle, pushed it up to his shoulder, and then dropped to one knee.
As he hooked her leg in a firm grip she couldn't shake, panic came and went, gone fast, because he put his mouth on her, over the silky fabric of the panties.
"Oh . . ." The music boiled through her, warring with any protests, egging him on. The bass line was her heartbeat, pounding hard against her chest, the guitar riffs her gasping breath, too much, overwhelming.
If he'd stumbled around like most guys did down there, she might have freaked out and shaken him, but she was too aroused, and his mouth knew what to do even better than her way-too-familiar fingers. A scrape of the clit with his teeth, long, dragging licks of his tongue up the filmy fabric, the friction of it galvanizing her hips to his mouth, wanting to feel the press of his nose, the rasp of his cheeks on her thighs. Tomorrow, she wanted to see the marks, wanted it to chafe when she walked. Evidence that she'd had this over-the-top moment with a stranger.
She twisted, he held her still. She bucked, he moved with her. His mouth was relentless, taking her over from the second it was on her. Foreigner was as merciless as he was, moving from "Hot Blooded" to "Urgent." No fucking kidding. She wanted that climax so badly, but she wanted more, too, an uneasy, yearning feeling she couldn't stifle. Her vision was graying. Oh, damn it all, she couldn't breathe.
He knew that, too. Already rising, moving up her body, hands reaching for the corset.
"No. Don't take it off," she gasped. "Don't."
He muttered an oath she could hear even over the music, with his mouth so close to her ear, but he slid his hands under her arms and lifted her so she was leaning into his body, her cheek on the slick chest muscle. His fingers went to the adjustable laces at the back. Yeah, right. Most guys took five minutes fooling with a bra strap. She was an idiot. She'd probably asphyxiate before . . .