As if he understood what it cost her, he ran his fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “Good girl. I wish you could see what you look like right now, sitting on that virginal white couch, naked and panting, with your lips wet, and your mouth open, ready to receive me. It’s a miracle I don’t come where I stand.”
&nb
sp; To distract herself from the heat creeping up her chest, she gripped the cushion and readied for a thrust. Instead, he traced her lips, gliding the smooth, broad head over them. Glossing them.
“Jesus, you have the softest lips. I could spend hours on them.”
No, he couldn’t, because she’d die. A hungry sound escaped her throat. She dipped her chin and bobbed for him.
Either he failed to anticipate the move, or he took pity on her, but however it happened, she finally had him in her mouth. He slid one hand into her hair, and cupped the other under her chin, constraining her in an unnervingly tender hold. His dark eyes locked on hers for a long moment—long enough for her to struggle with an urge to close hers in case he could see into every corner of her mind—before they dropped to where she held him in her mouth. Pressure mounted in her chest. She dug her fingers into the cushion to ground herself, because a lightheaded sensation rushed her. What the hell had she gotten herself into?
As if he sensed her rising panic, he pushed deeper. The breath she was holding gusted out through her nose. Reflexes kicked in, and she inhaled a mix of oxygen and testosterone.
The quick drag of air steadied her. Confidence returned. You know exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into. Leaning forward, she offered him her whole mouth. Her throat. Everything he could possibly want. The tip of her tongue found a vein along the underside of his shaft and traced the raised path as far as she could, then she sealed her lips tight around his length as she slowly retreated, using enough suction to guarantee he’d feel the pull for days. Thanks to the angle he forced on himself, she could look up and watch his eyes roll back in his head.
So much for his big plans. Another few seconds, and she’d not just finish him off, she’d level him. A minute after that, he’d be tugging his clothes on and making a beeline out her door.
She brushed aside an unfamiliar emptiness at the thought, and got to work, taking him as deep as she could, gorging on his scent, his taste, the leashed power of his thrusts. Fingers dug into her hair. The hand at her throat tightened. She recognized the signs. He was about to become a slave to instinct, and she was about to become a means to an end. Sure enough, he pumped his hips faster. Just as she prepared for a hot bath at the back of her throat, he did something unprecedented. He dragged his cock out, and hauled her to her feet. “Enough. On the bed. Now.”
Every stunned muscle in her body leaped to obey, but what passed for her better judgment issued a reminder. Not in your bed.
“Why be so conventional?” She crawled onto the chaise, held onto the lavishly scrolled arm, and arched her back to enhance the pose. “I’ve got this virginal white sofa just waiting to be…used.”
He ran his hands over her, from shoulders to hips, and then ended the caress with a quick slap to her ass. “Next time. Tonight, we need the bed.”
There it was again. The assumption they’d do this again. Before she could correct him, he leaned close and added, “What’s the matter, Jailbait? Did you lie about no ground rules? Is your bed out-of-bounds?”
The way he saw into her head was out-of-bounds. Her mind now advised her to abort. Eject herself out of this situation because she didn’t have the upper hand with Booker, and when it came to sex, she always had the upper hand. The rest of her wasn’t hearing it though. He’d stood her nose to the wall like a naughty schoolgirl and punished her with an orgasm so brutal it left her shaking. And he hadn’t even used his dick on her yet. Her body craved it. Clamored for it. Okay. Fine. Rule clarification. You can be on the bed, just not him. “Merely trying to keep things interesting.”
His smile suggested he didn’t buy her explanation. She started to ease off the chaise, but he lifted her and put her on her feet. “Keep trying.” He cocked his head. “The bed.”
She turned on less than steady legs and walked to the other side of the room, feeling the weight of his stare on her the entire time. Once there, she planted her feet hip’s distance apart, bent from the waist, and rested her forearms on the bed. “I trust this is interesting enough for you?”
His footsteps fueled her adrenalin. She lowered her head to the mattress, and lifted onto her toes.
“It’s definitely a start. Hand me my belt.”
She raised her head as a hundred imaginary feathers fluttered down her spine. “Your…what?”
“My belt,” he repeated. “It’s right beside you.”
“Why?”
“Give it to me, and you’ll find out.”
If she wasn’t in the mood for this, all she had to do was say so. Booker would let it go, without question. Even knowing this, backing down felt too much like surrender. She handed the strap to him, but couldn’t help adding a caustic comment. “Who would have guessed there were fifty shades of Sheriff Booker?”
His soft laugh stirred invisible molecules in the air around her. “I would never do anything so conventional. Besides”—he folded the belt in half and ran the edge along the back of her thigh—“I think you secretly prefer gentle.”
“I told you before, you don’t have to be gentle with me.”
“You’re tough, huh?” The edge of the belt tickled her skin again.
She faced front and held her position. “That’s right.” Dammit, she was her own worst enemy.
“Okay, tough girl. Be still.”
Impossible, because her legs were shaking again. Then he moved, and she sensed more than saw him kneel behind her. What the…? She straightened her arms and pushed up as he slid something through the ankle strap of her sandal.