One finger trailed down and explored, finding her clit and lingering to touch there. She moaned and pressed against his hand, her own fingers gripping his upper arms like a lifeline.
“There’s a spot, huh.” He drifted lower, following the slickness until he could slip inside her. “And there’s another.” He pressed kisses to her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes. “Lots of sweet spots, hidden under that sometimes-sour disposition.”
“I’m not candy,” she mumbled.
“Of course not.” His thumb added to the mix, pressing against her while his finger worked its way in and out, circling around. “Candy’s easy to predict. You chew a piece of spearmint gum, you know you’ll get that cooling mint sensation.”
He worked his mouth down to her breasts. “Now a Fireball, that’s straight cinnamon and spice.” He circled the tip with his tongue, enjoying the way she squirmed beneath him. “Butterscotch, now there’s one I really like. Smooth, creamy flavors mingling together.” He pulled at her nipple with his lips, then teeth, listening for the changes in her breathing. “And chocolate will give you that nice sweet treat.”
“Oh my God,” she moaned as he added a second finger inside her, his thumb upping its pace.
“But Peyton Muldoon, she’s a grab bag. Never know what you might get from day to day. Sassy?” He moved to the other breast, giving it just as much attention. “Fiery? Maybe even shy.”
He heard it then, that quick hitch that told him she was close, so close.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted to sample every single flavor of Peyton there is.”
It might have been sexy bed talk, but he meant every goddamn word. She pulled at him in ways he could never have anticipated. In ways he didn’t always like, didn’t always want. But the pull was there, and he was so tired of fighting it. So no more fighting. At least, not that kind.
She arched, gripped the bedding, and cried out her release. And Red knew true triumph, better than any buckle, more worthy than any paycheck, watching Peyton Muldoon lose herself in his arms.
Oh, holy mother of God. Peyton’s knuckles ached, and she realized she’d wound her fingers so tightly in the bedspread, they were starting to lose sensation.
The man had a way with more than horses. And he was still dressed. Once she mentally assessed that her limbs would work, she let go of the blanket and propped herself up on her elbows. “Not bad, cowboy.”
“Not bad? I think that was better than not bad.” His grin lit something in her, something not even physical release could touch. But she pushed it back. This was a one-night-only performance. No time for fires . . . other than the ones they could set between the sheets.
“Well then, let’s see what you’ve got on under that cocky grin.” She worked the snaps of his shirt easily enough, only mildly annoyed when she encountered a simple white undershirt. She gripped and tugged until the soft material came loose from his waistband. “Off, off, off.”
He chuckled and sat up, pulling at the shirt from behind until it sailed across the room. And she could instantly see his body was nothing to laugh about. Smooth skin, tan muscles, a light dusting of hair, just a little darker than the hair on his head . . .
Thank you, Patron Saint of Cowboys. Whoever the hell you are.
As she attacked his belt buckle, frustration got in her way and she bit back a scream. “Help, please.”
“Peyton.” His hands covered hers, stilling them. When she looked up, his face was serious. “There’s no rush. Slow down. We’ll get there.”
Technically, she’d already been there once. But she’d like to go back again. Repeatedly.
But the solemn way he stared at her, as if he could tell she was eager to leave the emotion at the door and concentrate on the physical, as if he was ready to call her out on her bullshit at a moment’s notice . . . Damn, that fire was starting to spark again.
She ruthlessly tossed water on it. No time, and no choice. “Well then. I’ve been put in my place.” She scooted up until her back was against the headboard. Like a woman bored with the show, she waved a hand at him. “Continue on.”
He smirked, but said nothing more. His hand worked the buckle—a buckle much smaller than the dinner-plate sized versions so many cowboys flashed around—and loosened his belt.
“I don’t want this to go so fast.” He kissed her knee before unsnapping the top of his jeans. “I’m not really in the mood to rush.”
“I can tell,” she said dryly, but her mouth was practically watering with anticipation.