“It’s ninety degrees outside.”
“Then we should build a decent shower outside. I’m cold now. Don’t even think of hanky-panky in here,” she warned, slapping a hand over his as he skated his palm over her mound. “There are more death-in-shower accidents than anywhere else.”
Yeah, he knew. He’d been responsible for several of them.
She twisted to look over her shoulder. “Is there soap on my back?”
They’d spent several minutes soaping each other, making sure there wasn’t a patch of skin or an erogenous zone untouched. Cruz didn’t feel cold at all. In fact, he was surprised that the dribble of cool water didn’t turn to steam the moment it came into contact with his skin.
He slid his palm over her belly, circled a soapy finger around her navel, then skimmed his hands back to her breasts. “I’ll check after I finish washing your breasts.” Her nipples— peaks hard due to his stimulation, he suspected, rather than the cold—nudged his palms, ultrasensitive and responsive to his every touch, no matter how light.
“I believe they’re squeaky clean now.” Her voice was dry as she rolled her head against his shoulder to look up at him with sparkling blue eyes filled with laughter and heat. Spiky-wet, long black lashes fluttered flirtatiously as she leaned back against his chest, cupping the backs of his hands where his finger stroked her breasts.
Turning adroitly in his arms, she slid down his body. Kneeling in front of him, Mia took his penis in her hands, then slipped the head into her mouth. It wasn’t the first time she’d given a man oral sex. She knew just how to apply pressure as his penis hardened, how to suck so that his erection became rock hard.
Using superior skills, she squeezed and stroked, sucked and licked, her head bobbing against his belly. Cruz plunged his fingers into her wet hair, holding her against him, his eyes squeezed shut as pleasure washed over him in waves.
Cupping the back of her neck, he guided her head so that her mouth mimicked the thrust and counterthrust of intercourse.
Her skin felt cold.
He reached under her shoulders and lifted her up. “You’re freezing.”
“Since when does that matter to a man getting a blow job?”
Stepping out first, he helped her over the edge of the old-fashioned tub and cranked off the dribble of water. Her skin was pebbled and pink, her nipples tight, rosy buds, and beads of water sparkled on her pubic hair. “Since tonight,” he told her, wrapping her in a towel.
“Well, I wasn’t finished there, mister. I want a do-over.”
He briskly rubbed the towel over her from her shoulders to her upper thighs, and considered the job done. “You and me both.” Picking her up, he carried her into the bedroom and stretched over her on the fresh white sheets.
Lazily she parted her legs, and he slid into her wet heat. Missionary style was not something he often did. It was too intimate, too slow, too face-to-face. It was a style that invited connections that he normally resisted. Now, though, he kissed her as he thrust in and out, their eyes open, their gaze locked on each other.
She came not once, not twice, but three times before he did. Each time she moaned her release, his arousal built. When she finally screamed his name, he exploded into her with an intensity that stole his breath.
He woke up an hour or so later, hard again, and slid inside her as she slept. She woke up to his penetration, welcoming him by wrapping her legs around his waist and arching into him.
He slept only until arousal awakened him. Each time he reached for her, she welcomed him, and his desire for her had no boundaries. He’d never had so much sex in one night in his life, and when he wasn’t making love to her, he held her, slept with her, felt her breath, relished the silky sensation of her skin on his.
When the morning sunlight hit his face, he groaned, because she should be dead, and he should be many miles away.
Chapter Ten
Miss Mia, you want me to do anything for you in the house?” Daisy kept her face averted as she clutched the leafy branches to her chest. It was barely nine in the morning, and wet-blanket hot already, yet she wore a brown fleece sweatshirt over her jeans. Sweat darkened the neckline, and her brown hair lay flat and lifeless against her head.
Mia, dressed coolly in shorts and a skimpy tank top, hesitated. Latour, working nearby, cast his wife a threatening glance before his gaze snagged on Mia’s. He held her gaze for several hostile beats before going back to trimming a shrub whose boughs were so heavy, they were nearly touching the ground.
A shiver of revulsion cooled Mia’s skin. She returned her attention to Daisy. “Yes, would you come inside now?” She had to raise her voice over the buzz of the trimmer.