“That is not helping.” He groaned but managed to get the gun out of the holster. Making sure the safety was on, he put it on the entranceway table.
“Nuh-uh.” She pushed at him. “Not here.”
Instead of complaining, he let her go and used the chance to rip off his T-shirt. By the time she made it to the bedroom and put the gun on the bedside table, he’d shucked his boots and socks and was working on undoing his belt, having left a trail of discarded items behind him as he followed her. Her mouth watered. God, he was sexy with his hair all mussed up and his lips wet from her kisses, his body bared for her eyes only.
Pulling the belt out of its loops, he dropped it to the floor.
She walked over, put her hands on his hips, then slid down to press her lips to his navel, just above the button he’d flicked open on his jeans.
He said words she didn’t know in his native tongue, thrust his hand into her hair, and shuddered. “You cannot do that, sugar. Or I will embarrass myself.”
Rising slowly, kiss by kiss, she met his mouth with her own. He hauled her close, his erection pushing demandingly against her abdomen and his body heat a pulse. She ran her hands over him, loving the feel of him, the scent of him. He smelled . . . of Janvier. Masculine and hot and just Janvier.
When she reached down and stroked him through his jeans, he broke the kiss to press his forehead to hers, his breathing strained. “Ashwini.” A hoarse whisper. “I have no defenses against you.”
Seduced, intoxicated, she tugged down the zipper, wanting to feel him in her hand, to pleasure him as he did her with his every touch. “You’re not wearing underwear.” She used her teeth to tug on the lobe of his ear. “I should’ve known.”
Gripping the back of her neck, he kissed her again as she closed her fingers around the thick heat of his erection. His cock felt like iron, but his skin there, it was so delicate, so fine. Fascinated, her own pulse a hammer and her blood so scalding it was near ignition, she stroked gently to the tip, felt the wetness there. Her next stroke slicked that bead of wetness over him, turned his body even more rigid.
“Harder.” It was a harsh murmur against her ear.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
He chuckled. “There is a reason orgasm is called la petite mort.” Closing his hand over hers, he showed her a rhythm so rough she would’ve never done it on her own. But since he’d asked . . .
Releasing her on a groan when she proved an apt pupil, he locked his hand in her hair, kissed her, deep and voracious and raw. It was mouth sex and it scrambled her neurons. Her hand, though, it knew what to do, did it fast and hard until he broke off the kiss to throw back his head, muscle and tendon standing out in stark relief as his hips pumped into the fist of her fingers.
38
Ashwini looked down, watched him come for her, and it was the most erotic sight she’d seen in her life. When his muscles relaxed, she released him to bite at his throat, over his pulse. He shivered, then nuzzled at her, one hand cupping the side of her face. His eyes were lazy, his body languid as he walked her backward.
When the bed hit the backs of her knees, she fell onto it with a gasp. “My hand,” she murmured to the delicious man above her, one who looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed and was ready to crawl back in—with her.
A smile that was pure male. “I’ll take care of it.” Zipping up just enough to keep his jeans on, he moved with vampiric speed, was back from the bathroom in the time it took for her to inhale, the stickiness on her hand an erotic reminder of their intimacy.
Using a wet facecloth to wipe it off, he dropped the cloth over the side of the bed. “I’m not always so . . . civilized,” he said afterward, lifting one of her legs and pulling off her boot and sock. “Would you wear me on your skin?” Kissing her ankle, he put down that leg and picked up her other one.