Power and Possession(22)
Of course it is. “I know,” he said instead, not about to start another argument about something so ludicrous. “You decide when it ends.” Walking to the bed, he sat down with her on his lap, feeling strangely content with no expiration date on their amusements, gently kissed her cheek, and said softly, “Your schedule, okay?”
“At the moment I don’t have long-term goals.” She ran her finger over his bottom lip, feeling all warm and fuzzy in the aftermath of their dispute or her temper tantrum or whatever it was, liking the way he felt holding her close. “Only super short-term goals having to do with an orgasm or two for me.”
Capturing her finger, he kissed it, then folded her hand in his. “I can do that.” His whispered words touched her cheek, warm and seductive. “One or two orgasms first?” A neat and pragmatic solution, a cure for the ache inside her. “Any preferences on methodology?”
“You inside me, first, second, then ask me again.” The desperation in her voice exposed her need. “Just so you know, I don’t like to be desperate,” she said on a suffocated breath. “So if you don’t mind one small order. Fucking hurry.”
He laughed. “Got it.” He reached for the tie on her bikini top.
She brushed his hands aside. “I’m just slightly past seduction. About a hundred miles. Put me down and get undressed.”
He chuckled. “More orders, pussycat. Will they ever stop?”
“Yeah.” She ran her hand over the bulge in his shorts. “Guess when.”
Chapter 7
Standing up, Rafe set Nicole on her feet beside the large four-poster bed covered in a Le Manach zebra-print fabric and nodded. “Sure you don’t need help?”
She pointed at her itsy-bitsy, flower-print bikini. “I’ll be in bed before you.” She grinned. “Waiting.”
Already kicking off his blue leather sneakers, he laughed. “There’s a living wet dream.” He jerked his white short-sleeved Henley over his head and was reaching for the zipper on his striped shorts when Nicole pulled the bow at the back of her neck loose with one hand, unsnapped the hook on her bikini top with the other, and let the small scrap of flowered fabric drop to the floor.
Rafe’s breath caught in his throat. “Nice tits,” he said softly. “You must hear that a lot.” He was looking at the Venus de Milo of breasts—flawless, sex-bomb plump, the deep rose nipples mouth-wateringly kissable.
“Not really,” she lied. “I expect you hear a compliment or two about”—she flicked her hand toward his chest—“your ripped torso. Only a little moral restraint kept me from jumping you when I first saw you in your stateroom.” She grinned. “And your dangerous girlfriend too.”
No way he was touching the topic of Sylvie again. “Right now, the only danger is my lack of restraint,” he said, unzipping his shorts. “This might be the fastest fuck of my life.”
“Music to my ears, dude.” Sliding her thumbs under her bikini bottom, she wiggled once.
“Jesus.” Rafe went still as the silky material slid down her legs. It wasn’t as though the small bit of fabric had hidden much, but what it had was seriously fuckable—the perfect little minimalist V of soft dark curls, glistening and dewy wet, was kicking his libido into the red zone, adding inches to his dick.
Intensely susceptible to her own fierce need, Rafe’s full stop was unnerving; he’d already tried to back out twice. “In case it matters, I’m asking real politely for you to hurry, okay?” She kept her voice supercalm, like one would coaxing a lion into a cage. But with her current level of horniness, she wasn’t above resorting to plan B. “Or I might have to go it alone.”
“No fucking way,” Rafe growled. “And I mean it real politely,” he murmured, each word thick with sarcasm. Although with her creamy ass and the tantalizing glimpse of slick pussy she gave him as she briefly kneeled on the bed before dropping onto her back, he was going to be hard pressed to stay within the boundaries of acceptable behavior, let alone politesse. Sucking in a breath, he told himself to fucking chill, and tamping down the worst of his brute impulses, he shoved down his shorts and boxers and stepped out of them.
She gasped—a soft, explosive sound.
Not an unfamiliar sound. He looked up.
“So it’s not an urban legend after all,” she whispered, coming up on one elbow and holding out her hand as little tremors raced up her spine and she turned liquid inside. “That… is… wow—big.” She took a quick breath, blinked. “And gorgeous.” All her nerve endings began to sizzle and please, please, please lit up her brain. Rafe Contini was the poster boy for hung. Her wide-eyed gaze levered up, met his, and her voice went velvet soft. “Come closer.”