"Not yet," he whispered, pulling her down next to him. "Let's get you warmed up first."
Warmed up? She was ready to ignite!
He rolled to his side and offered her body his complete attention. His gaze lingered on the hollow at the base of her throat. The curve of her breast. The pucker of her nipple. The patch of ivory lace below her belly. But he didn't touch any of it. Any of her.
She arched her back, inviting him to get to it before she went up in flames. He dipped his head toward her breast. She closed her eyes in anticipation only to feel his teeth nip at her shoulder. Had the man never studied basic female anatomy?
It went on like that for a while. He investigated the sensitive spot at the inside of her elbow, the pulse point at her wrist, and the bottom curve of her breast. But only the bottom curve. By the time he touched the soft skin of her inner thigh, she was quivering with desire and fed up with his torture. But when she rolled over to take control, he shifted his weight, deepened his kisses, and somehow she was once again at his mercy. How could a man who'd gone four months without sex be so restrained? It was as if he weren't human. As if he'd used his genius inventor skills to create some kind of sexual avatar.
With the world's largest erection.
The exquisite torture went on, his caresses never quite reaching where she so desperately needed them to be. She tried not to moan, but the sounds slipped out. This was his revenge. He was going to foreplay her to death.
She didn't realize she'd reached for herself until he caught her hand. "I'm afraid I can't allow that."
"Allow it?" With lust-fueled strength, she twisted out from under him, threw one leg across his hips, and yanked at the snap on his shorts. "Put up or shut up."
He trapped her wrists. "These stay on until I take them off."
"Why? Are you afraid I'll laugh?"
His thick hair was rumpled from where she must have dug her fingers into it, his bottom lip a little swollen from where she might possibly have bitten it, his expression vaguely regretful. "I didn't want to have to do this yet, but you're leaving me no choice." He flipped her beneath him, pinioning her with his body, fastened his mouth on her nipple, and delivered the perfect suction, just this side of pain. At the same time, he slipped a finger under the thin strip of lace between her legs and then inside her. She groaned, pulled her heels high on the bed, and shattered.
As she lay helpless in the aftermath, his lips brushed her earlobe. "I thought you'd have a little more self-control. But I guess you did your best." She was dimly aware of a tug at her lace chastity belt, then the slide of his body down over hers. He caught her legs and parted them wide. His beard stubble brushed the inside of her thighs. And then his mouth covered her.
A second cataclysmic explosion claimed her, but even then he didn't enter her. Instead, he tortured, comforted, tortured again. By the time her third orgasm hit, she'd become his sexual rag doll.
He was finally naked, and when he entered her, he did it slowly, giving her time to accept him, finding the perfect angle, nothing clumsy, no groping, no accidental finger scratch or elbow jab. He delivered a steady angled stroke followed by a hard thrust, flawlessly orchestrated, designed to deliver maximum pleasure. She'd never experienced anything like it. It was as if her pleasure was all that counted. Even as he came, he supported his weight so she didn't have to bear all of it.
She slept. They woke, made love again, and then once more. Sometime during the night, he drew the sheet over her, brushed her lips with a kiss, and left.
She didn't fall back to sleep right away. Instead, she thought about what Lucy had said. Every woman should have Ted Beaudine make love to her.
Meg couldn't argue with that. She'd never been loved so thoroughly, so unselfishly. It was as if he'd memorized all the sex manuals ever written-something, she realized, he was perfectly capable of having done. No wonder he was a legend. He knew exactly how to drive a woman to her maximum sexual pleasure.
So why was she so disappointed?
Chapter Twelve
T he club was closed the next day because of the holiday, so Meg did her laundry, then headed out to the cemetery to attack weeds with a couple of rusty tools she'd found near what was left of the storage shed. As she cleared some of the oldest headstones, she tried not to obsess too much about Ted, and when her cell rang, she didn't even take his call, although she couldn't resist listening to his message. An invitation to dinner Friday night at the Roustabout. Since Sunny and Spence would undoubtedly be part of their dining party, she didn't return the call.
She should have known it wouldn't be that easy to discourage him. Around three, he pulled up in his powder blue truck. Considering the way the town's females primped for him, she was happy with her dirt-streaked arms, bare legs, and the tight-fitting Longhorns T-shirt she'd rescued from the trash bin in the ladies' locker room, then modified by chopping off its sleeves and neckband. All in all, she looked just the way she wanted to.