“Are you wet for me?” he asked against her flushed skin.
She let out a tortured moan. “Yes.”
He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties, brushing against the tight curls at her apex but not going any farther. “Do you want to fuck me?”
“Yes.” She bucked against his hand, undulating her hips in an obvious effort to get him to touch her where she needed him.
But he wasn’t going to do that. Not yet. He needed her to understand what this was about. They weren’t just fucking. Not anymore. This was more. “Do you want me to fill you up and make you mine?”
Lip caught between her teeth, she nodded. “Yes.”
“I want you to be mine.” It was a declaration, a promise, a prayer. He picked her up and headed for the stairs. “No one else’s.”
…
It was just talk, the kind of out-of-your-mind, turned-on-beyond-belief talk that didn’t stay true in the light of day, but Gina wasn’t going to think about that now. Not with Ford touching her like that and looking at her like he really meant it—like he’d fallen for her the way she had for him. And that’s what it was, and that’s what made this so good and so bad at the same time. She loved him. There wasn’t any two ways about it. Ford Hartigan didn’t have to make her his, she already was.
“Be careful of the wonky step,” she said as he carried her up the stairs.
His grip tightened on her. “You don’t have to worry when you’re with me.”
He brought her into the bedroom and set her down near the foot of her bed. Then, he started to unbutton his shirt, and her jelly legs decided it would be better to watch the show from the bed. Her legs were smart.
Totally unconscious of the fact that she was in her underwear while he was doing a strip tease—even if he probably wasn’t thinking of it that way—Gina took in the moment, packing it away in her memory bank for a night probably not that long from now when Ford would be gone.
His shirt went first, followed by him reaching behind his head and yanking off his undershirt. That gave her an unobstructed view of his muscular chest and arm-porn-worthy biceps. She meant to stay on the bed, really she did, but her legs—smart legs, remember—had other ideas. While he flipped off his shoes, she was next to him, tracing her hands across the expanse of his shoulders, circling his flat nipples with her tongue, and lowering herself to her knees to better follow the happy trail leading from his belly button to the button of his jeans.
When he reached to unfasten it, she swept his hand aside and did it herself, watching the exquisite anticipation that made his nostrils flair and darkened his green eyes. She pushed his jeans down, then his boxers, and wrapped her hands around the base of his hard cock, stroking up and down.
“Gina,” he said, the rough edge of his voice sending a thrill through her.
She cupped his balls and took a slow lick of the swollen head. “Yes?”
“You’re not being nice.”
Up and down she stroked. “Really? I thought I was being very nice.”
The vein in his jaw ticked, visible proof of the tenuous hold he had on his control. “This is about you tonight.”
“And this isn’t?” she asked, twisting her grip as she moved her hand up and down his length.
He closed his eyes and said on a harsh exhale, “No.”
Silly men. “You don’t think I get turned on watching you fight off an orgasm?” She leaned forward and swirled her tongue around the head of his cock, relishing the salty pre-come at the tip. “Because I do.” She took him in deep before letting him go. “I do a lot.”
He shut up after that—unless she wanted to count the rumbling sounds of approval as he threaded his fingers through her hair and held her in place while he moved his hips back and forth with slow, precise movements that had both of them on the edge of sanity. She did not want to count that. Instead, she slid her hand between her legs and underneath her panties.
“Fuck,” he said, his voice tight. “Are you playing with yourself?”
Since her mouth was busy, she just nodded.
“I want to watch you.” His hands in her hair held her in place as he took a step back. “Show me.”