Secrets and Sins:Raphael(4)

A needy whimper swelled up her throat and joined the erotic dance like a  third partner. She rose on her tiptoes, clutched his shoulders, the  thick, soft material of his shirt bunching under her fingers even as she  angled her head for deeper penetration. Her tongue curled around his,  sucked. His taste. She moaned. Oh, it was beautiful. Underneath the  tangy scent of beer lay an earthy, sun-warmed-land scent that called to  her. She drew harder on him, telling him without words she needed more  of him. Of his kiss. Of his touch. He groaned long and low. His fingers  flexed hard against her neck and spine.

He tore his mouth away, swore, then as if unable to help himself,  crushed another kiss to her lips. "My house is a twenty-minute drive.  I'm not gonna make it that long." He cupped her cheek, pressed the pad  of his thumb into her tender bottom lip. "You live closer?"

She nodded. "Yes," she breathed. "Back Bay. Not far."

"'Kay," he murmured, brushing a kiss across her forehead. "No second thoughts? No what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking?"

Regrets?

She regretted spending her entire life trying to make up for being  damaged goods to her father. She regretted wasting so much time stifling  her passion and dreams in order to conform to an unobtainable image of  perfection that she no longer recognized who she was anymore. She  regretted devoting five years to a man she'd trusted and believed to be a  friend but who saw her as nothing more than a lucrative career move.

Oh, yes, she had regrets. Plenty of them.

But this?

"No," she whispered. "No what-the-fuck-was-I-thinking."

He studied her face for another long moment. "Good."

Nodding, he dropped his hand from her face, enclosed her fingers in a  gentle but firm grip, and led her away from the bar. Not far down the  street he paused in front of a large black SUV. With a short beep and  double flash of his headlights, he opened the passenger door and boosted  her into the seat. She shivered against the chilled air as he jogged  around the front end and joined her in the truck. He jabbed the keys in  the ignition but didn't crank the engine. His fingers fisted the metal,  and she waited, confused, as he bowed his head and muttered something  under his breath.

Before she could question him, he jerked the keys free and fell back in  his seat. He turned to her. Shadows shrouded the vehicle's interior, but  she could make out the wild tumble of hair around his face, the  compressed line of his full mouth, and his eyes …  Her breath snagged in  her throat. She couldn't make out the color in the dim light, but the  intensity behind the unwavering stare? If he'd reached out and pressed  his hands to her shoulders, he couldn't have more effectively ensnared  her.                       
       
           



       

"Tell me, princess, have you ever made out in the backseat of a car before?"

Stunned, she could only shake her head.

"First time for everything. C'mon." With lightning speed, he snatched  her hand from her lap and guided her between the tight space separating  the driver and passenger seats. Grip firm, he steadily maneuvered her  toward the rear of the vehicle.

"Wait," she objected, finally locating her voice. Even if the breathless  quality dampened the power behind the protest. "We can't … someone could  see-"

"Tinted windows," he muttered, settling on the farthest row, grasping  her waist, and tugging her across his lap. He swiftly adjusted her legs  until she straddled him. The pleated skirt of her dress flared over  their thighs and his hips. "No one can see a thing. Now kiss me."

She cast a furtive glance to the large side window. Uncertainty warred  with the desire clenching her stomach and gathering in the throbbing  flesh between her legs. Through the dark film on the glass she could  make out the shapes of the closed businesses, but not any details.  Still …

"Trust me." His low voice brought her attention back to him. He grazed  the backs of his fingers down her cheek, drew them down her neck to cup  her nape. "I wouldn't risk exposing you like that. Get wild with me,  princess."

The dare in his challenge was unmistakable. Get wild. With him. Fear  flashed through her. She was as familiar with "wild" as Hugh Hefner was  with celibacy. She closed her eyes and a sigh shuddered from her lips.  She wanted to be that carefree, reckless woman. Even if only for  tonight.

She lifted her lashes, met his hot gaze, and slowly sank down until the  hard ridge of his erection pressed against her sex. Twin groans echoed  in the quiet. She gasped at the delicious pressure-the pleasure that  satisfied and aggravated the needy ache deep inside her.

"I need … " She didn't finish the thought. Couldn't assign a proper  description to the hunger that pounded inside her chest and echoed in  the grasping emptiness centered in her sex. It exceeded anything she'd  ever experienced. So instead she dug her nails into Raphael's shoulders  and rolled her hips, undulating in a slow grind over the hard flesh  that-thank God-would be buried inside her tonight. She tried to relay  without words what she desired from him-what a part of her knew only he  could give. A soft cry tumbled free, and she dropped her head back,  repeating the erotic dance.

"Do it again." His demand was almost guttural, and the grip at the back of her neck tightened. "Ride me again."

She whimpered both at the sensual command and the sharp pleasure that  intensified with each pass of her clit and folds over his erection.  Greed, lust, and a virgin feminine power swelled within her, yanked her  into their undertow. She lowered her arms, palming his knees and giving  herself leverage and more control over the speed and depth of pressure.

His heated, rough murmurs filled the rapidly warming interior. He told  her how beautiful and sexy she was. How good she felt riding his cock.  How he couldn't wait to be inside her and watch himself slide in and out  of her. She trembled, his words so erotically charged that when he  cupped her breasts and brushed his thumbs over her beaded nipples, she  almost came.

With hurried but sure hands, he shoved her jacket off her shoulders, the  material trapped at her wrists. Unerringly, he located the zipper at  the back of her dress and yanked it down. When he tugged the sleeves  over her shoulders and arms, she lifted her arms, wriggling free of the  constricting material. The jacket slipped silently to the floor, and the  top of the dress pooled around her waist, leaving her torso bare except  for her white lace bra.

For a moment, old insecurities invaded the sexual haze she'd drifted  into. She wasn't top-heavy by any stretch of the imagination. Her small  breasts-more than an A but not quite a full B-had never inspired an  uncontrollable passion in men before, and she'd always been  self-conscious about her size. Even Gavin, who'd claimed to find her  beautiful, had offered her a chest enhancement, aka boob job, for a  wedding gift. Surely Raphael, with his stunning looks and sex-on-a-stick  aura, attracted women who resembled women and not girls barely out of  their teens …

"Shit, you're gorgeous. Fucking perfect," he groaned, palming her flesh,  squeezing and shaping. He didn't bother with unclasping the back  closure but lowered the cups so they pushed up her modest cleavage. Not  that he seemed to mind-or notice-that it was modest. No, as he leaned  forward and captured an aching tip between his lips and laved it with  his tongue, emitting a deep, vibrating moan, she believed to him she was  truly … perfect.                       
       
           



       

"Oh, God," she breathed, tangling her fingers in his hair and holding  him to her. Each tug reverberated in the core of her, pushing her closer  to the edge she both raced for and backpedaled away from, wanting this  wicked torture to last.

His fingers and mouth played her like an instrument, tuned her tight and  made her sing. He plucked, strummed, and stroked her body, drawing  forth the sweetest pleasure, resonant notes that echoed in her head, her  belly, and lower, deeper.

One hand abandoned her breast and slid down her stomach, passed over her  skirt. The soft, urgent caress reversed at the hem and began its ascent  up her thigh. The material hiked and bunched over his wrist. Cool air  washed over her inner thighs and the wet, pulsing flesh between her  legs.

Except for their labored breath, a heavy silence weighted the air,  almost like the pregnant pause before the fury of a storm struck. He  lifted his head, stared down at her spread thighs and the white panties  that had to be damp and almost translucent by now. Her chest rose and  fell as she sank her teeth into her bottom lip and gazed at the top of  his dark head. She tensed, fighting against the urge to close her legs,  hide the obvious evidence of her need.