Page 57 of Reverb

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Light’s too bright,” he said. His hands rose to my shoulders, and he slid my cardigan off my arms. He dropped it on the floor. Putting his hands on my hips, he gently turned me to face him. Then he lifted the lifted the hem of my jean skirt, sliding it up to my waist.

“Stone?” I asked as my body went haywire.

“You gave the right answer to my question,” he said in that deep voice as he bunched my skirt around my waist and hooked his fingers in the waist of my tights in an oddly gentle gesture. “So I’m gonna go down on you.”

Oh. Oh hell.

I was robbed of speech as he rolled my tights down my legs, lifting one of my feet and then the other to get them off. Then he slid my panties down.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. I could barely even stand, which Stone seemed to realize, because he put those big hands on my hips again and pressed me back to lean against the countertop. Some of my weight left my feet, just enough that my toes touched the floor. While I watched in shock, Stone lowered to his knees and pressed my legs open.

Was I actually going to stop him? That seemed inconceivable. There was no universe in which I did not want Stone to do this, right now. And yet I was completely bared to him in a way I hadn’t been before, my skirt bunched up, my legs splayed, all of me displayed at his eye level. It had happened so quickly, and it was so incredibly dirty, and I should probably do something about it.

What I did was moan as he ran a palm along my inner thigh, then pressed his mouth against the skin there. His other hand stroked me, gentle but firm.

My eyes closed at the pure pleasure of it. I was getting used to Stone touching me, my body becoming familiar with the feel of his fingers, his hands. I was starting to crave it. I’d never been touched by any man like this, as if he already knew me, as if he worshiped me. As if he had dedicated himself to learning every one of my secrets.

My hands gripped the edge of the counter, growing damp with sweat. I leaned my weight back farther and opened my legs wider, giving Stone an invitation he couldn’t misread. I heard him let out a soft breath, which I also felt against my skin. His hand stroked me for a little longer, sensitizing me. Then, ever so slowly, he lowered his mouth to my center.

Pleasure radiated from that touch, down my limbs and up my body, catching in my throat. His tongue was slick and warm, exploring me in the most obscene way, and my brain shorted out. I leaned back, the top of my head touching the mirror with a gentle thump as I gasped. I tried mindlessly to raise my hips for more contact, but Stone used his skilled hands to keep me in place, making me be patient.

With me pinned to the countertop, he kissed me, so deep I could feel the gentle scrape of his beard on the skin of my inner thighs. He sucked gently and then let me go, using his tongue again. It was the most incredible torture I’d ever felt, the wildest pleasure, the intensity almost unbearable. I cried out as he kissed me again, using that gentle suction, then let me go and used his tongue.

I lifted one hand from the counter to dig it into his hair, trying to bring him closer. He ignored me and used his tongue in one dirty stroke after another, right in the best spot, in exactly the way I needed, and I came, not caring how loud I was.

How long had that taken? Minutes? I’d forgotten who I was dealing with. This man could detonate me with the touch of his fingers or a few strokes of his tongue, and I actually thought I had a chance against him? The battle was over before it began.

Stone rose from his knees and lifted me easily. There was no way I could walk. He carried me the short distance to the dark bedroom, sat me on the edge of the bed, and lifted my arms. My top and bra were on the floor a second later. I regained enough brain function to reach for his belt and the buttons of his jeans, working to get his clothes off as he shucked off my wadded-up skirt.

Naked, he got into the bed with me, making the mattress emit its familiar groan. In the semi-dark I watched him, bathed in shadows, reach for a condom and put it on. I had never wanted anything as badly as I wanted him in that moment, the perfection of his big body, the line of hair on his lower stomach, the scruff of his beard. I wanted to devour him.

As if sensing my thoughts, Stone hooked an arm under me and moved my body easily, positioning me on top of him. One hand grasped the back of my neck, his fingers in my hair, and he leaned up to put his mouth close to my ear.

“Ride me,” he said, his voice a growl.

So I did. I pressed down on him, and at the same time I leaned my forehead into his shoulder, closing my eyes, because this wasn’t just dirty, it was good. I braced myself on the bed and he gripped my hips, and we moved together. It was filthy, and it was incredible, and it was better than anything I had ever imagined. I had never known it could feel like this.

His hands slid up my body and cupped my breasts, his thumbs stroking my nipples. He was going to make me come again—I knew he was, and I knew he could. He could make me come as many times as he wanted. I let it happen, let his hands move over my body in exactly the right way, touching me exactly how he needed to, until he sent me over the edge. Then he followed me, and both of us spun in the darkness.

TWENTY-TWO

Sienna

I was standing in front of the mirror in my childhood bedroom, fastening an earring, when my mother called up the stairs. “He’s here!”

“I’m coming down,” I called back.

I was very calm about this. I was absolutely fine with Stone Zeeland coming over to have dinner with me and my parents. Besides, it was unavoidable. My parents were not going to let it go.

My parents had noticed, of course, that I spent nights away from home. This was unavoidable when you lived at home at twenty-eight. Eventually I’d had no choice but to have that most awkward of conversations, the one in which you tell your mom you’re having sex with someone.

She’d been calm about it. My dad had, too. I’d had boyfriends before, and my parents didn’t have a caveman, don’t-touch-my-daughter mentality. They were teachers, so I’d had lectures about consent and birth control when I was still young enough to cringe at them. When I told Mom now that I was seeing someone, she’d first asked questions about whether I was safe and happy. (The answers were “yes” and “I’m in a jumble of feelings I have no idea how to sort out,” which seemed to satisfy her.) Then she’d asked, “Who is he?”

I felt my cheeks flush in a way they hadn’t when I’d admitted I was having sex. “You met him, actually,” I replied. “It’s Stone. Zeeland. Of the Road Kings.”

Mom was silent for a beat. She took her toast from the toaster and spread some butter on it. “Ah,” she said.

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