“Your hands are dirty,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Very dirty,” she murmured, and she wasn’t talking about her hands anymore.
His eyes strayed to the T-shirt he’d tossed to the ground. “Can you grab my shirt?”
“Yes,” she said and twisted down to reach for his T-shirt. She handed it to him.
He took the fabric and used it as a cloth to wipe the paint off her hands. “Now, I’m going to need you to remember this position. Can you do that for me?” he asked in a commanding tone that thrummed through her body.
“Yes.”
He tipped his forehead to the water.
“This is the real money shot now. Because when you take a picture of me, I am going to have so much fucking lust in my eyes from how much I want you right now.”
Hot desire pulsed through her blood from his words. She wanted him, too. Desperately. Her body was molten, her skin sizzling from head to toe. She shifted off of him, readjusting her skirt. He rose and walked to the water, lapping the rocks on the bank of the riverbed. She reached into her camera bag, slung her Nikon over her neck, and headed for the water.
She brought the viewfinder to her eye and felt a bit like a proud film director. The shot was perfect. The setting, the wooded trees, the morning light. But most of all—him. The desire in his eyes was tangible. Even in the bulky, heavy turnouts, she could make out the shape of his hard length. The pants were thick enough that the shot wasn’t too dirty, but he was still visible enough that he was perfect fodder—he was the firefighter every woman fantasized about.
That was the trouble. He made her feel too good, and it wasn’t a fantasy; it was all too real. More real than she ever expected. She should draw some lines in the sand with him and make a strong pact to behave. But she didn’t want him to keep his hands off her. She wanted his hands, his head, his heart.
After she finished shooting, she peered through the LCD screen to confirm she had enough shots. Then she heard him walking to her, and his nearness stirred her blood.
“Put the camera down, Megan,” he said.
Surprised by his command, she glanced up, the camera still in her grip. His eyes were full of dark craving, rimmed with black around the pupils. He didn’t stop looking at her, nor did he break the hold he had on her as he spoke again in a low and husky voice.
“You have ten seconds to put down the camera and get back into the same position I asked you to remember.”
All the air whooshed out of her lungs from the dominating way he talked to her, leaving her no choice but to return to the rock. He sat down and pulled her onto him. She swallowed, her throat dry as he stared at her as if he wanted to consume her.
“Now touch yourself.”
She exhaled hotly, overcome with desire. Her entire being had been reduced to the aching between her legs. Even so, she managed a weak protest. “I thought we agreed…”
“I don’t care what we agreed to. I can’t fight this anymore, and I can’t pretend I don’t want you in every way. You are under my skin, and in my head, and even if there are one million reasons or just one reason not to touch you, I can’t find it in me right now to resist.”
“I can’t either,” she said, and the admission was a huge relief. The tension was too much to bear. She was a cog wound too tight in danger of snapping. She’d rather bend. With him.
“Torture me, Megan, with your sexy sounds,” he growled. “I want to watch you and see the look on your face when you’re close to breaking. I want to hear those sounds you make when you’re losing control,” he said, and she trembled from his words. “Do you want to come right now as much as I want to watch you?”
“More than anything.”
Dipping his hands under her skirt, he hiked it up to her waist, exposing her to him with only the thin triangle between her legs covering her. His fingers slid inside her panties, and she moaned so loudly she was sure the birds would start talking back to her, joining her in a chorus of cries. He pushed the fabric to the side. Then he held on to her hips, leaving the work up to Megan.
“Now, it’s your turn.”
She brought her fingers between her legs. She traced her own wetness, rubbing the slickness across her core, his eyes growing hungrier as he watched her. Her fingers stroked up and down, slowly at first, but then she started to quicken her pace. She arched her back, and at the same time, he used one hand to push up her shirt above her breasts. He unhooked her bra in seconds, and one big hand cupped a breast, kneading and massaging as she rubbed.
“Now bring some right here,” he instructed, squeezing the tight peak of her nipple. She gave him a strange look. “You painted me. Now paint yourself and let me taste it.”