Bucking the Rules(45)

The lack of foreplay definitely was a surprise. He searched her out with two fingers, testing quickly. Yeah, she was already wet. Just walking up the stairs with Trace, knowing what they would get into, was enough to get her going. But rather than taking his time, he unzipped behind her, reached in his own wallet for a condom—clearly a replacement from the other night—and was in her before she could say the magic words.

Please, God, please …

Her hips pushed against the edge of the table, which bit into her skin. Her cheeks flushed, a contrast to the smooth cool tabletop. And her hands clawed at the edges, trying to find a grip as he took her from behind. Her arms were too short to reach the other end and she scrambled until she realized there was no hold. Instead, she flattened her palms and pushed back against him the best she could, given her position.

His hands were rough, not the gentle, playful lover from the last time they’d joined. Insistent, dominant, demanding. He made her body follow, didn’t allow her to give in when her muscles screamed, wouldn’t let her give up or beg for another spot.

It was amazing. He knew just when to flip her over, onto her back, and ram back into her. Knew she wouldn’t have lasted another second in the first position.

He ripped her shirt up, pushing her bra with it and latched onto her breast with his mouth, pulling on her nipple as hard as he thrust into her wet center. Her hands came around his head, clutching, gripping, doing whatever she could to gain traction on the feelings rushing through her. Physical, emotional, whatever the hell was happening to her body that made her want to scream and cry out and beat at his shoulders and pull him closer to her.

Her legs curled around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him into her, deeper and harder with each thrust. Her head fell back and thunked against the table, but she didn’t care. And when she came, she screamed and arched until her body couldn’t give another inch.

Trace followed her swiftly, his own climax seeming to take as much out of him as hers did from her. But through the sexual haze, the sweetness of her name on his lips cut through and made her want more.

More what—that was the question.





Chapter Eleven


Trace stared up at the underside of the table. “This might be the weirdest place I’ve ever recovered, sexually.”

After they’d been able to move again, Trace had helped Jo up from the table. But rather than lead them to bed, as he’d assumed, she’d stripped what was left of her clothing and headed into the small kitchen.

When in Rome … he’d followed suit. And found her digging through the freezer. Her nipples tightened into sweet pink buds while she practically crawled into the appliance to find what she wanted.

She’d produced a half-eaten carton of Moose Tracks ice cream, found two spoons—one of which was a cooking spoon, that she’d claimed for her own—and ended up lying on her back under the table, eating spoonfuls straight from the carton.

He really needed to stop assuming about Jo. The minute he had her figured out, she changed things up again.

“I could think of weirder spots for things.” Jo licked her spoon, giving extra attention to the spot where the bowl met the stem. Damn it all if his cock didn’t start getting jealous of that piece of cool metal. “Behind a Dumpster, for example.”

“You had sex behind a Dumpster?”

“No, that would have been gross.” She smiled. “I just got dumped by the Dumpster. Which, I realize, is more than a little ironic. But hey, the guy clearly wasn’t a prince.”

“Asshole.” He dug another bite out. “This is chick ice cream, you know that, right?”

“Chick … ice cream.”

“Yeah, all these chunks of stuff in here. Ice cream has like, four flavors: chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and maybe swirl, if you’re feeling crazy.”

Jo rolled her eyes and beat his spoon away with her larger one to get another bite. “For a guy who insults the ice cream, you’re digging in without much problem.”

“I need my strength. You wear a guy out,” he said innocently. Partially true. But really, he was more interested in watching her face while she ate.

Every moment of pleasure, each drop of ice cream was reflected in her expression. The half-closed eyes, the little moans, the way her tongue darted out to lick a stray drop. He could watch her for hours.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

She froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. “No.”

His brows lowered. That was fast. “Maybe lunch next week. There’s a nice spot in—”

“Negative.” She said it so calmly, digging in for another bite.