Grin and Beard It(90)

“What are you doing?”

“Setting the stage.”

“For what?”

“Be quiet. Let me think.” I studied the setup and decided it would have to do.

I grabbed the box of doughnuts—he’d procured four, all with icing—and placed one on each plate. I set the remaining two still in the box on the kitchenette table.

“Okay,” I grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the small table, motioning for him to sit on the carpet, “let’s have doughnuts.”

He sat.

Actually, he semi-lounged.

Jethro placed his coffee on the small table and leaned back at an angle on one arm, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. My tummy fluttered with excitement as I sat on the floor next to him and picked up the frosted confection. I was going to smudge the corner of my mouth with frosting.

And then he was going to lick it off.

And then we were going to kiss.

And then . . . good things after that. Hopefully including, but not limited to, rolling around and making out on the carpet like teenagers.

Holding Jethro’s eyes with mine, which were heavily lidded and hot with interest, I took a small bite, careful to dab the side of my mouth with the frosting.

But then something unexpected happened, and it startled me out of my sexy thoughts.

The doughnut was insanely delicious.

Insanely. Delicious.

It was still warm from the oven, and yet it melted on my tongue. It was sweet, but tempered by a center filled with rich, smooth, bitter high-quality chocolate crème.

Unable to help myself, I moaned, “Oh my God.”

Jethro’s lips quirked to the side, his eyes on my mouth, and—right on cue—he leaned forward. “You have something just there.”

I ignored him, swatting his hand away, and took another bite, speaking around a mouthful of heaven on earth. “Holy shit, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Jethro rolled his lips between his teeth, his eyes bright with laughter, and watched me devour the doughnut.

I continued to moan with each bite, licking and sucking my fingers until it was gone. Completely preoccupied, I didn’t notice the shift in his mood at first. I was just about to lick off the last of the crème when he caught my wrist, forcing my attention to him. My protest died on my lips as the weight and intensity of his gaze hit me all at once. He looked hungry.

To be more precise, he looked ravenous.

Jethro brought my finger to his lips and sucked it into his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the junction between my index and middle finger. The light, slick touch sent unexpected trembles to my lower belly and pulled a soft whimper from the back of my throat.

“As I was saying,” his darkened gaze drifted hotly from my eyes to my lips, and he used my hand as leverage to tug me forward, “you have something . . .”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he licked the corner of my mouth and then delved his tongue ardently between my lips, caressing mine hungrily. Jethro’s grip on me shifted. His arm came around my waist, supporting me, while my hands cupped his jaw.

In a controlled and graceful movement, he rolled me onto my back, held himself above my body, and claimed my mouth. I felt his fingers on my thigh, sliding the hem of my skirt higher, skimming fingertips between my legs. Instinctively, I arched and strained, wanting to be touched, needing him to touch me.

“Undo your shirt,” he ordered, pulling his mouth from mine and fastening it to my neck.

“Why don’t you—?”

“Because I’ll rip it off.”

Well okay then.

With eager fingers, I undid the buttons while he pressed his thigh between my legs, sliding against me. The rhythm was both intoxicating and frustrating. I felt empty, greedy for his skin.

When I finished with my top I set to work on his buttons, but he batted my hands away, his mouth moving to the center of my breast, groaning as he sucked me through the black mesh of my bra and into his mouth. Mindlessly, my hips rocked, searching for friction, for his touch.

I don’t know if it was the doughnut—food of the gods—or the sexy, sexy man above me, but I was already hovering on the edge of my orgasm.

“Please,” I panted, grabbing his hand from where he drew light circles on my thigh, and pressing it to the front of my panties.

His eyes blazed a trail from my breasts, over my exposed throat to my lips. He slipped his fingers into the lace waistband with achingly slow and measured movements, stroking a tight circle around my center while bending his head and licking my lips.

“Please,” I said again, chasing his mouth as he withdrew, his teeth and tongue skillfully lavishing my jaw, neck, and shoulder with biting kisses.