He caught my hand, repressed laughter in his voice. “Maybe stop there.”
But this was serious, so I treated it seriously. I withdrew, holding my palms up and out. “Okay. Good to know. Now what about your knee?” I settled my hand on his knee.
“That’s fine.”
“Upper thigh?”
He cleared his throat. “Fine.”
“What about—”
Jackson caught my hand again before I could move it higher, his lips pressed together, his eyes shining with humor.
Once more, I removed my hand, but I caught one of his as I withdrew. “I’m sensing a pattern.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Now, let me show you my boundaries.”
I pushed my messy braids behind me, leaving the front of my dress free of my long hair. I then placed his hand on my bare shoulder, and his eyes cut to the spot, some of his amusement fading.
“You can touch me here—” I slid his palm down my arm and then lifted it back up to slowly trace over my collarbone, my neck, my cheek, pushing his fingers gently into the hair at my temples, then—closing my eyes—taking his knuckles and brushing them against my lips.
“Rae—”
“I’m not finished.” Keeping my eyes closed, I used his hand like I might a soft cloth. Except, his hands weren’t soft. They were calloused, and the friction felt quite nice as I moved it along the other side of my collarbone, and down my other arm, and then straightened one of my legs and lifted my skirt.
His breathing now audible in the cab, I let my lashes flutter open and unhurriedly slid his big, rough palm from my ankle to my knee. He didn’t look at all amused now. His jaw tight, his attention transfixed to where he touched me. Those intense, deep-set eyes had turned from their usual rich brown to a much darker shade.
“This is still a friend touch,” I whispered, bringing his fingers up to my mid-thigh, pushing the skirt as we went. Then, I stopped. Because now I was feeling breathless too.
He glared at his hand on the skin I’d revealed, the muscle at his temple jumping. His eyes cut to mine, and a shock of oh-shit-I-think-I-pushed-too-far made the very center of my body twist and ache with anticipation.
“What about this?” he asked gruffly, an edge of something deliciously dangerous behind the question as he slowly, so very slowly, skimmed his fingertips higher, nudging my leg wider. “Does this feel friendly?”
“Very friendly,” I said, meaning it as a joke, but something got lost in translation between my brain and my mouth because his eyes flared, and then his fingers were pushing my skirt higher to reveal the waistband of my underwear.
And then his fingers were inside my underwear.
And then I shuddered, sucking in a shocked breath, my hands spasming as they searched for something to grip, and the blunt tip of his middle finger circled my clit.
“And this?” His voice a growl, he shifted closer, pulling the straps of my dress and bra down my arm. Lowering his mouth to my neck, he placed a hungry, wet kiss there, his tongue licking the skin beneath my ear before trailing down to my chest, all the while giving me the gentlest strokes between my legs. “Is this how friends touch you?”
Unable to form words, I gripped his shoulders for purchase because, even though I couldn’t really go anywhere, I felt like I might fall.
He tugged harder on the strap of my dress and bra, sliding his fingers into the cup and pulling it down, his hot kisses moving over the tops of my breasts, but then he paused at my nipple, withdrawing an inch or two. His glorious tongue slid out of his mouth and painted a tight circle around the stiff peak. Everything in me coiled hot and needy at the sight.
Why must he be so fucking sexy all the fucking time?
Laving a firm, wet lick over the straining center, he caught me in his teeth. At the exact same moment, he slipped two fingers inside me, and I cried out.
“I don’t think I like the thought of other friends touching you this way,” he grunted, withdrawing his fingers from my body and hooking them into my underwear.
“Maybe you and I could have a—a special friendship.” My retort pitched high with not a small amount of desperation.
Maneuvering me up, he firmly pulled the triangle of fabric down my legs, and then grabbed my hips, bringing me across his lap such that I lay between him and the steering wheel, my back to the driver’s side window, and the hard press of his erection under my bottom.
Bunching up the skirt of my dress to my stomach, he bared all of me from the waist down, his elbow against the interior of my knee, holding me open.
Grabbing my hand, he demanded, “Look at me, friend.”
So I did.
And then—oh God—and then, holding my eyes like he dared me to look away, he brought the index and middle finger of my hand to his mouth and slid them inside, tangling them with his tongue. A shock of arousal so intense speared through me, I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning. Finished torturing me, he took my hand and lowered it between my open legs, encouraging me to touch myself.
I whimpered. I was so slippery, and sensitive, and I ached. I didn’t want my touch. I wanted his. But his hand splayed unmoving on the inside of my thigh, the tips of his fingers less than an inch from where I played with my body, his eyes on my movements. The slick, wet noises the only sounds in the quiet dawn other than my frantic, gasping breaths.
Leaning forward, he caught my ear between his teeth and whispered, “Do you know why I’m making you do this?”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
His hips shifted restlessly, rolling beneath my backside. “Because, in the future, whenever you touch yourself in this friendly way—” he nipped at my ear, his tongue licking the lobe and sending a cascade of acute shivers racing over every inch of my skin “—I want you to think about this moment, and how much I enjoy watching you play with your pretty pussy, and our special friendship.”
That did it.
My head whipped back as I my body began to come apart. Mouth opening on a silent scream, Jackson finally, finally pushed his long fingers back inside, hooking them up, touching the sweetest of spots, pumping into me quickly, massaging mercilessly.
I remembered this about him, and the memory hadn’t been overexaggerated. He’d been exceptionally skilled at finding and stroking my G-spot precisely where and how I needed—then and now. I grabbed his wrist as I rolled my hips and clenched around his fingers. Bowing forward, instinct had me trying to squeeze my legs together. But I couldn’t. His elbow at my knee kept me open to his gaze.
It was too much. The way he watched me, like he was in a trance. The way he touched me, like I belonged to him. My chest heaved and, even as stars continued to burst behind my eyes and the pleasure explosion radiated from my center and tremors wracked me, I curled toward him, needing his warmth and closeness, needing to bury my face in his neck and feel the hard planes and strength of Jackson hold the soft contours of me. Needing his delicious scent in my lungs and the taste of him on my tongue.
Needing him.
We kissed, our mouths fusing as he wrung another orgasm out of my body. His lovely thumb—the very one he’d parted my lips with outside the bank on Thursday afternoon—rubbed my clitoris in time, his rough, unyielding fingers at my entrance.
My lungs ached for air, and eventually I was forced to turn my face so I could breathe. He kissed my cheeks, my neck, and my shoulders, biting my skin and soothing it with languid strokes of his tongue. Soft, deep sounds reverberated from his chest, like he found me tasty, and he was famished.