Now he would have her.
He shoved off his shorts and kicked them away.
Samantha’s gaze traveled down his body, stopping at his cock. “You’re going to take me now?” she breathed.
“Yes. I’m going to take you.”
“Will you do it hard?”
Heaven help him, he might tear her in two. “Spread your legs,” he ordered.
Instantly, she complied.
The sight of her with her hands tied, legs spread drove him to grab her by the ass, lift her and plunge deep into her moist heat, filling her to his hilt.
“Oh, yes,” she said, wrapping her legs around him. “Harder. Please, harder.” The flames in her eyes flickered like the candles beyond her body.
He pulled out and drove in again.
“Like that,” she moaned. “Yes. Again. Do it.”
He pumped in and out, again and again, feeling something in him give way, slip out of his control and go to her.
Her climax tightened around him and he exploded into her, burying his cock into her space, his face in her neck.
Climax number four for her, he vaguely realized. A respectable score in any sex game. But he was tired of playing.
Still panting, he reached up to untie her hands and she slumped against him, her open dress hanging around her body. He kissed her mouth, so happy to hold her in his arms, to feel her fingers in his hair, hanging on for dear life.
“Come to bed,” he said and started to lift her into his arms.
She stopped him, remaining on her feet. “I can’t,” she said, struggling for oxygen. “I have to go now.”
“You can sleep with me,” he said, reaching for her.
“But that would spoil it…the fantasy.” She smiled. “Now I have to slip away in the night.”
“Come on, Samantha. Forget the game. Let’s go to bed.” He would be happy to give her screaming climaxes all night long.
“It’s what I want, Rick. And tomorrow night, I’ll come back and ravish you, okay? You’ll love it.” She held her dress closed, reached down to button the two or three buttons that hadn’t been ripped off. When she was finished, delicious gaps of pale flesh peeked out where buttons were missing.
He didn’t have the heart to argue with her. Instead, he helped her blow out the candles so that the studio smelled like the end of a birthday party, smoky and a little sad.
What was wrong with him? He was going along with her like a damned puppy dog, instead of making things clear, telling her how he felt, what he wanted, or, hell, who he was.
He walked her to her car, kissed the lips he’d bruised, pulled the buttonless top of her dress over her breasts to hide them from late-night drivers, and watched her pull away.
He was in big trouble. He stood barefoot in the parking lot of a stakeout where, instead of watching for crime, he’d made love to a woman who’d barely stopped being a suspect.
He looked up at the full moon and wanted to howl.
14
“THAT FEELS SO GO-O-OD,” Samantha said, “but what about the buttersco-o-o-otch?” She could hardly get the words out because Rick was licking the hot fudge slowly and carefully from her left breast and down the line he’d painted to her sex.
“Not sure there’s any left after what you did to me,” Rick said, chuckling against her flesh. “Mmm. Let’s see if I can dig up a little for down below.”
She heard the click of a spoon, then Rick shifted lower on her body and she felt warm liquid, followed by his tongue’s stroke. She moaned in helpless pleasure.
“Mmm,” he murmured against her sex. “I think I like you just plain, no toppings.”
In seconds, she’d rocketed off to another delicious climax, completely forgetting about the whipped cream in the kitchen.
Rick slid up her body and cuddled her close.
“That was so great,” she said. “And there’s so many more foods we can try.”
He groaned. “I’m stuffed,” he said, kissing her behind the ear. “I should get going. Want me to scrub you down in the shower? Get off the last of it?” He chuckled against her, pushing his erection between the cheeks of her bottom. “Get you really, really clean?”
Tonight, she’d insisted they be at her place, though Rick had been reluctant to leave the studio—so strange how he clung to the place—because they’d need to shower after the sex-and-food adventure.
“I’m too tired,” she said. “And I’m sore.” Doing the stripper-seducing-a-businessman fantasy the night before had strained her inner thighs. Sliding down the beam she’d pretended was a chrome pole must have done it. Or maybe it was doing it against the wall that left her aching.