“Like everything else I do, I dress to please me.” She tipped her head, and aimed defiant eyes at him.
Defiant or not, the truth in the words restored his equilibrium—marginally—even as they riled his curiosity. “Going bareback pleases you?”
“Sometimes,” she replied, drawing the word out in her huskiest voice and lowering her long lashes.
A calculated maneuver, but still 100 percent effective. And her smile told him she damn well knew it.
“My tits are very sensitive. Each sequin in this top is anchored by a little knot, and when they shift, I feel it against my skin. It’s incredibly…stimulating.”
The visual stimulated him to no end. The slim cords in her arms tensed, testing his hold on her wrists. Not frantically. More like an obligatory escape attempt. He thwarted her, catching how the small show of force sped her pulse. This stimulated her, too, at least to a point. Fiercely independent Lauralie got an illicit thrill from feeling a little dominated. How far could he take that? He rubbed his chest over the fancy shirt, just enough to disturb the sequins.
An uncensored, completely uncalculated noise came from the back of her throat. Honest and needy. Too honest for her comfort, apparently, because this time she tried to break his hold for real. He knew exactly the moment she realized she couldn’t, and counted down the seconds until…
“No fair.”
Quite a sight she made, with her enormous, artfully-smudged eyes flashing, and remnants of some shiny, pink gloss still decorating her swollen lips. “Fairness implies rules. I could have sworn you said ‘no rules.’”
“Screw you, Booker.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get to that, but I’ve got a score to settle first.” He whispered the promise in one unprotected ear, and then kissed his way along her tense jaw. At the same time, he eased his hand under her shirt, up her slender ribs, to take the weight of her breast. “You can dish it out, but…” he squeezed. Not quite as tightly as she’d tormented his balls…“can you take it?”
The way she drilled the tight peak into the center of his hand gave him his answer, even before she said, “Harder.”
She wanted harder. He wanted her off balance and begging. He swept the top up her body, releasing his hold on her wrists long enough to drag the thing off, and toss it aside. She stood there—pinned—with her arms stretched high and those sensitive tits she loved to please lifted toward him like a gift.
Just to make her wait…make her want…he took his time appreciating the view while her chest rose and fell with quick, urgent breaths.
“Booker—”
“How hard?”
“What?”
The impatience in her voice made him smile. “How hard do you like to be handled?”
She cocked her head and gave him an imperious look. “Do I look like the kind of girl you need to be gentle with?”
In answer, he braced his forearms against the wall, leaned in, and slowly, deliberately let his sweater graze her nipples. To his satisfaction, she nearly dissolved. Her eyelids drifted down, her cheeks flushed, and her breath hitched on a helpless sound.
“Was that a whimper?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Really? It sounded like a whimper to me. Next time, I’ll—”
“No.” She shook her head. “No next time.”
“Next time,” he continued, ignoring her interruption because there sure as hell would be a next time, “I’ll spend days teasing your tits like this, just to hear you whimper for me again, but now”—he released her wrists and lifted her until he brought his head level with her straining nipples—“I’m going to taste them.”
She gripped his shoulder with one hand, plunged the other into his hair, and arched up, trying to take control. “Finally.”
Resisting her attempt to use him to her satisfaction, he rested his mouth against one pink crest. “Patience, Lauralie,” he murmured, and gave her the barest of kisses. She let loose a strangled curse. Her nipple throbbed between his lips. Her knees turned into a vice, and the back of her head hit plaster. He kept the kisses slow, and the pull light, until she writhed against the wall with feverish grace.
Gentle worked for her, regardless of what she claimed. Time to see how rough she liked it. He gradually increased the depth and suction of each kiss, filling his mouth, allowing his teeth to score her skin. Her body lifted toward his, as if connected by a network of wires running from her nipple to the farthest reaches of her nervous system. When she panted his name, he kissed his way to the other breast, and lashed his tongue along the underside until she shoved herself into his mouth. He lavished the same attention, sucking gently, then not so gently, then gently again, enjoying how she alternated between showering him with praise and damning him to hell.
Music to his ears. Agony to his dick. He wanted to be inside her more than he wanted his next breath, but he’d endure. If he gave in to the urgency, as soon as he pulled out she’d reduce this to a one-night stand. Easy to compartmentalize and dismiss. He wouldn’t allow her do it. He’d push past her barriers, even if need tore at him. Even if they both crawled away a little worse for wear by the time he finished. He intended to share more with her than an orgasm. Or a series of orgasms. Though drawing one out of her now, just to make sure she knew how effectively he could, seemed like a good place to start. Releasing her, he dropped to his knees, and pulled at her slippery white shorts. They caught on the flare of her hips. “How do I—?”
“Back here,” she gasped, already reaching behind her. “There’s a zipper—”