Was it possible for a bum cheek to go on fire? Cherry was sure she was going to find out.
“Turn around, sweets. I want to sample my surprise.”
When had this turned into his surprise? Did escorts act like this? Wasn’t there a meet’n’greet system or something? Hell if Cherry knew, and hell if she cared. Damien was coming on strong and forceful, and by God, she liked it. She didn’t have to think, didn’t have to make nice, she just had go along with the flow and enjoy it.
Slowly, she turned to find him as close as he’d felt. He was leaning on the door with one hand, and his hand on her bottom trailed around to rest on her lower abdomen as she moved. Looking up, she was disappointed that she couldn’t see his face properly.
“Let’s have a little look at what delectable delight I have here,” he murmured, reaching for the light switch.
“No!” Cherry grabbed his wrist.
“No?”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “My choice, remember?”
“Not really.”
“My rule. No looking.”
His teeth were a flash of white in the gloom. “I can still see a little. What’s the harm in letting me see everything?”
She stiffened. “No.”
“Intriguing. A mystery woman.” His laugh was soft, deep. “I like it.”
Cherry relaxed against the door, relief sweeping through her.
“I can see a little of you, enough to know that you’re pretty.” He leaned closer still, his forearm resting against the door. “So, Molly Jones.” His big hand crept slowly up over the gentle swell of her stomach. “Any other rules I need to know?”
Thinking right now wasn’t easy. Her nerves were jumping, her blood starting to rush a little bit faster through her veins. It had always been a fantasy to be in this situation, and to have it actually come to life…she just hoped she didn’t faint.
“Or are there no rules?” Damien’s voice was huskier, his lips brushing her brow.
One big palm closed over her ample bosom and Cherry’s heart started pounding in her chest. Sweet Jesus, she was going to have a heart attack any second!
Looking up in the dimness, she saw the glitter of his eyes, the green shards of his irises catching the little bit of light from the partially opened bathroom door. A wicked glint shone briefly before he moved his head lower still, blocking out the light so there was only shadow.
“Let’s go with no rules, Molly Jones.”
Nerve endings were fired off in all directions when one hard thigh slid between her softer ones and pressed against her mound. Hoo boy!
“You look like you want to say something.” The whisky on his breath was filtering through her senses along with the scent of his cologne and maleness. “Say it.”
His hard thigh nudged her femineity through the material of her dress and panties, and she gasped. “Oh sweet mercy!”
Low and deep, his amused laughter slid through the room with heat and through her senses with lust. “Let’s see if we can do better than that.” Swooping down, he caught her mouth. Firm lips moulded to hers, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips with heady determination.
Cherry couldn’t think, her thoughts scattering as his tongue slid inside and swept through her mouth to take her flavour and leave his own behind. One big palm flipped her hair back over her shoulder before dipping down under the low neckline of her dress to slide in and press on her bra-covered nipple, rubbing sensuously against it while his hard thigh kept up a steady nudging of her defenceless womanhood, forcing her to ride his thigh. Feelings exploded inside her, a searing flush of heat that burned through her as her thighs, forced open by the width of his thigh, offered little protection to her labia, enabling him to press against her clitoris.
Fearing her knees were truly going to give out, she reached up and gripped his shirt.
“Good idea,” he whispered. “Let’s get it off.” Keeping one hand at the small of her back, he drew her away from the door while unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand. His gaze slid down her body, lingering on every swell.
Cherry gulped inwardly. Even in the dimness he’d be able to see she was no Bella the Ballerina. Her wrap-around dress had a low neckline, showing her ample cleavage to advantage, and it skimmed her waist which, thankfully, swept inwards, but then the skirt of the dress swept out to gracefully ride the generous curves of her hips before falling to brush around her knees.
At least in the dimness he wouldn’t see the dimples in her knees. Or in her arse cheeks, and she knew they were there because she’d just about done herself an injury one day, craning her neck in the mirror to check out her arse. It was the last time she’d ever looked at it.