Page 63 of Summer Affair
“Yes.” He kissed her. “But this.” Another kiss, even longer and hotter. “This thing between us is crazy. I’ve never …” He trailed off, kissing down her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulder, and lower. “It’s like I can’t get enough.”
She knew exactly how he felt. Every time they touched it felt as if they were building to some cataclysmic collision. Between the pent-up sexual tension and growing emotional connection, they were on a course for something earth-shattering.
“Inside,” he said against her ear, then gave her lobe a little nip. “Now. I need you inside.”
She needed him inside as well, desperately. She reached behind her and opened the door, then, tightening her grip on his shirt, tugged him through over the threshold. He kicked the door shut and walked her backward.
They were like a wrecking ball, bouncing off the entry table, where she lost her shirt, then the sofa table, where he lost his. Finally, he backed her into the arm of the couch, where she tumbled backward onto the sofa.
Before she could move, his hands were at the waist of her skirt, slowly unzipping it and sliding it down her legs, and then it was—bye-bye—gone.
He stood back and admired his handiwork. A rough, very male sound of appreciation rumbled as he ran a hand over his mouth. She was in nothing but bare skin and lace. He grinned. “A thong. My favorite.”
“I thought commando was your favorite.”
“We’ll get there.” He was like a tiger stalking his prey, and she was startled by the intensity behind his gaze.
She moved backward on the couch, and he crawled right over the armrest and up her body. But then he did something unexpected. He took a moment to brush his thumb down her jaw in a gentle display of affection that melted her heart.
“Pretty,” he whispered, holding her gaze.
She didn’t know how long they lay like that. Him on top, her with her legs loosely wrapped around his thighs, studying each other, like there was an entire conversation happening though neither spoke.
Slowly, he lowered his head, his eyes never breaking contact and when their lips touched, the connection was like a live wire.
“Crazy,” he whispered, then kissed her again. And again, there was that spark.
Hands at the base of her neck, thumbs tracing her jawline, he cradled her head and delivered slow, practiced kisses. Capturing her lower lips between his, sometimes giving her a little bite, but the entire time revving her engines for the big event.
He wasn’t one to be rushed, she learned, taking his time with everything he did as if kissing deserved just as much care and forethought. But after a year of dreaming about this moment, and weeks leading up to where they were now, she needed more.
“Clay,” she murmured, and it was as if he magically knew what she needed because that oh-so-talented mouth of his started a slow journey south, kissing her collar bone, the hollow of her neck, between her breasts until finally he reached her second favorite place when it came to foreplay.
Rising on an elbow he traced the lace edging of her bra, his finger dipping down into her valley. On his way back he dipped beneath, tugging the fabric to pull it down and under her breast, to that nipple-teasing level. He captured one in his mouth, sucking before releasing, exposing her nipple to the cool night air. Also exposing it to him.
Bending his head, he pulled her breast into his mouth, sucking and licking until her back arched off the couch. She held him to her, a groan being torn from her. He smiled against her skin, moving to the other and paying it the same focused attention. Only this time, his finger teased down her stomach to the belly button and beneath her lace thong.
He let the lace slide between his fingers and before she knew it, his fingers were sliding into her. Out of her. And back in again. In a rhythm that was designed to drive her out of her mind.
His mouth was still on her breast, his talented fingers bringing her to the edge of sanity. Maybe it was because it had been so long, or maybe it was because he was that good, but in no time he had her panting, her body straining, and her hips pushing shamelessly against his hand.
“Just like that,” she informed him as though he hadn’t already learned what she liked.
“Like this?” He pulled back.
She pushed forward. “Like this.”
“Ah,” he whispered. “Like this.” Again, he pulled back, far enough that when she pushed, it didn’t have the same friction that she wanted. No,needed.
“Please,” she whispered.
“I did promise that I’m a give the lady what she wants kind of guy.”
“I want more.”
Man of his word, he pushed at the same time as Jillian and it was a delicious pressure that built with every thrust, every touch, every caress. Every second they were touching.
“Clay,” she panted, and he teased, teased until she was there. A place she hadn’t been in years. Scratch that, a place she hadn’t been with a man. “Just a little more.”
