As far as Brooke was concerned, riding on the back of a Harley was about as potent an aphrodisiac as anything ever invented. And as for the uses of vibrators in foreplay...
Well, a motorcycle put them all to shame.
Which explained why the moment she and Spencer were through the front door of her small, comfortable house, she had him up against the wall, her arms around his neck, and her crotch grinding against his thigh. Shameless, maybe, but she knew what she wanted. Him.
It had, frankly, been too damn long.
"Well, hello to you, too," he said, but she was in no mood for teasing, so she shut him up with a kiss.
Spencer, to his credit, got the message right away. One of his hands slid down to cup her ass, then the other moved up her back underneath her T-shirt, his palm warm against her skin.
"Off," she begged. "Please, pull it off."
He knew what she meant, and his hands moved just long enough to grab the hem of her shirt and pull upwards, tugging it over her head and tossing it carelessly on the floor. She reached back, unfastened her bra, and wriggled out of it.
Then she took Spencer's hands and pressed them over her breasts, sighing with pleasure when he groaned in delight. "Do you have any idea how much I adore your hands?" she asked.
"At least as much as I adore every inch of you."
"Oh, sure. Show me up." She started to laugh, but the sound turned into a strangled gasp when he used his thumbs and forefingers to pinch her nipples, then capture her mouth with a hard, demanding kiss.
She opened to him, drinking in the masculine taste of him, melting under the raw sensation of his beard against her lips, her cheek, her chin. Most of all, losing herself to the heady pleasure of knowing that he was hers. To tease and touch and take.
He pulled back, dragging his teeth over her lower lip as he broke the kiss. She whimpered in protest, but he silenced her with as simple command to, "Trust me."
Since she did, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back, losing herself to both the sensation of his touch and to the wonderful, mind-blowing knowledge that the universe had turned right-side up, and they were truly together again.
With a wicked, torturous slowness, he kissed his way down her neck, over her shoulder, and then on to her breast. She expected him to go lower, but he paused there, his tongue taking over for his hand as he sucked and teased her nipple, making threads of electric pleasure cut through her like lightning in a thunderstorm.
As his mouth performed that magic feat, his fingers explored further south, moving lower over her abdomen and leaving her skin hot and tingling in the wake of his insistent touch.
While his tongue and teeth teased her nipple, his fingers attacked her jeans, opening the button with expert skill. He tugged the zipper down, then slid his flattened hand into her skinny jeans, so tight that once he'd cupped her sex, he could only move a finger. But those movements were made with all the skill of an expert.
His fingertip teased her clit as his mouth ravaged her breast, and his other hand shifted up to hold her tight around the waist, keeping her steady as the heat of rising passion spun and whirled inside her, a hot wire of pleasure running from her nipple to her clit.
She was close, so very close, and though she knew he wanted her to go over, she didn't want that. Not yet.
She had something else in mind.
"Wait," she said, her voice raw with pleasure, her head light with need. "I want you inside me. Now. Fast and hard. Please, Spencer, help me get out of these damn jeans."
"Whatever the lady wants," he said, his hands moving with lightning speed to her hips to tug the jeans down.
Since it was May, she'd been wearing sandals, and she kicked those off easily as her own fingers found his fly and began going to work on the button and zipper.
He moved to help, starting to pull them down, but she stayed his hand. "No. You stay dressed. Just me. Naked for you."
He lifted a brow. "I like a woman who takes control."
She almost laughed out loud. "Good," she said, then kissed him hard before she eased back to the small table onto which she tossed her mail. He must have seen her purpose reflected on her face, because he flashed a wicked grin, then took her by the waist and lifted her.
And then, once she was seated, he put his hands on her knees, spread her legs, and dropped down to kneel in front of her.
That, frankly, wasn't what she'd had in mind. She wanted it hard. She wanted him to fill her, to pound himself inside her. To shake the table and make the pictures rattle on the wall.
But when his beard scraped her inner thighs, and he slowly stroked his tongue over the length of her sex, she had to concede that his plan had merit, too.
His tongue played her expertly, and she arched back, her hands clutching the edge of the table, her breath coming in staccato bursts as the familiar pressure built inside her, a warning of a coming explosion.