Her Billionaires(34)

She surveyed the layout before her. Some sort of a camping blanket; thin, but well-worn. Actual stemware, wine glasses that he kept in a special case. And as he inserted the cork screw into the first bottle of wine, and very deftly opened it, she sampled one of the cheeses.

“Mmm, sheep’s cheese?” she asked.

His eyes lit up. “Yes! You can tell from the taste?”

“Yeah,” she said, “it’s one of my favorites.”

“Well, hot damn! Who knew I’d find someone who knows their fromage?” he said, biting his lower lip, and smiling and nodding at the same time, as if he quietly celebrated a minor success.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, “who knew?” Her face shifted in an expression of wistfulness, of serenity, of being very much in the moment.

She felt she could breathe around him, that she could appreciate each breath. And as he handed her the glass of red wine, she sniffed it, then took a sip. “This is good.”

“Guess?”

“Guess what?” she asked.

“Guess what kind of wine this is.”

She surveyed the bouquet, sniffing a couple of times, lapped at the red wine very ostentatiously, took a sip, and looked at him grandly, with as much pretension as she could muster, and declared, “It’s red.”

He burst into laughter. “How sophisticated.”

She shrugged. “Sorry. I may know something about cheese, but I know nothing, absolutely nothing, about wine. But I like this.” She reached for his hand as they stood and stared out at the valley. “I like this a lot.”

His warm palm closed over her shoulder and he looked down at her, standing a full foot above her frame, his neck leaning toward her, his face an inch away. “Yeah. I like it a lot too.”

Making love outside, in the fresh air, had never been part of her bucket list. In fact, it was more a part of her anti-bucket list; bright light, no covers, on the hard ground? Who would find that appealing?

Uh, her. Right here. Right now.

As Mike stared at her, eyes burning with an intensity she fell into, an abyss of wanting, she found herself startlingly interested in trying this new experience. Was this why he had gone to so much trouble—the wine, the special blanket, the fromagerie of cheeses and such? It dawned on her that he wasn’t just being a sweetheart, giving her a lovely, gourmet picnic for their second date.

As a matter of fact, what they had eaten was just an appetizer.

She was the entree.

His kiss wasn’t a surprise; what shocked her most was the preternatural urge that welled up, unbidden, as his hands seized her ass and hips, his body knowing exactly what—and who— it wanted. He shifted, like he had on their first date, from a mild-mannered, lanky, zen-like dude to a ferocious, sexual alpha male.

And she—she—had triggered all that. It excited her almost more than his touch, the way his tongue conquered hers, how his palms were greedy for so much of her skin, his chest pressed into hers, the thick outline of his erection in such stark relief against her navel she could probably sculpt it out of clay from memory. When he urged her, gently, to kneel, then recline, on the blanket, she knew her outdoor sex cherry was about to be popped, and a thin membrane of restraint about to give way to a burst of need that told her she was more than ready to bare all before nature.

“Mmmmmmmm,” she sighed. His mouth moved from hers, hands tracing patterns of lust on her breasts, as if he were memorizing the terrain, his flattened palm stealing down her ribcage as his lips caressed her neck. She had worn a skirt today, a just in case move that she was grateful for, now, because the easy access meant that this would be so much simpler, more direct, less complicated.

Like Mike.

And, thankfully, she had shaved. Landscaped, if you will. Going nearly bald had been a new experience, the little landing strip like a giant, glowing neon sign pointing to her clit. She almost smiled to herself; would he like it? Hate it? Not care?

Barely functioning nerves kicked in and she couldn’t turn off the lopping thoughts, the cluster of fears and insecurities, even with this gorgeous athlete’s hands greedily touching every part of her, even as his lips brushed her abdomen, her hands in his hair and—oh! He was going...

The smooth, cold feeling of her skirt sliding up her thighs felt like butter melting on hot flesh as a light breeze blew up to her V, centered on the little bit of hair under her postage-stamp thong. She shivered and he nearly growled, his face about to descend on her womanhood, his eyelids heavy and his hands communicating his own, barely-controlled need. A deep sigh from him as his hands roamed up her torso told her more than words, that he was enjoying this, that her body was his, and fine, and enough.