The fuzzy blanket slid from my lap, baring my legs to the cold air, and he shook it out and laid it behind me, bracketing my body with his arms as he did so, keeping inches between our lips. Finished with the blanket, he placed a palm on each of my knees and gently pushed them apart. He didn’t step between them, but instead slid the backs of his fingers along my inner thighs to the scrap of lace between my legs, lifting my little skirt.
I swallowed reflexively, chasing my breath. He looked so certain, like he was following a script, like he knew exactly what to do. And here I was, just sitting there like a lump, doing absolutely nothing except watching this fantasy come to life.
“Are you cold?” he asked, his thumb circling me through the lace of my panties, making me shiver and pant.
“No. No.” I shook my head, my words shaky. “Not at all.”
His attention shifted to the suit jacket still covering my shoulders. On a wild whim, afraid he’d stop if he thought I was the least bit cold, I pushed off the jacket. And then, because I really didn’t want him to stop, I leaned forward enough to untuck my dress from where I’d been sitting on the hem and whipped the stretchy black fabric over my head.
His lashes flickered, perhaps having trouble believing his eyes, and a breathy curse slipped past his lips. I’d surprised him, but his thumb never ceased its gentle torment at my center. I widened my legs.
“Take off your bra,” he said, his words firmer than before, his eyes dropping to my chest. “I’d like to lick you there first.”
Yes. Please.
Usually, I waited to release the girls until they could be revealed in a dramatic, high-tension, super-sexy fashion, with just the right lighting. And yes, I called my breasts “the girls” because to me they were amazing, and girls are amazing. I’d always loved my boobs. Maybe it’s weird, but when I got myself off, I liked looking at and touching my boobs. I thought they were so hot. I loved them, and I hoped all women got as much enjoyment out of their girls. Girl power.
But at present, I didn’t care about a dramatic reveal. With slightly trembling fingers, I unhooked my black lace bra and tossed it away, maybe down the cliff. Then I arched my back, offering myself, not missing the shaking breath he released as his gaze grew greedy, the first tangible signs that I might be affecting him the same way he’d been affecting me all afternoon.
I reached for him, but he evaded my hands, shaking his head. “Hands behind your back.”
A new current of something powerfully seductive made my head spin. He sounded so authoritative, like someone who actually had the power to make such a demand. Which I supposed he did. How many times had he said those words as an officer of the law?
Without thinking, likely because he had me completely enthralled, I said, “Yes, sir,” and obeyed.
Two lines appeared between his eyebrows, a hint of a frown, and I wondered what was going on in his head. But a second later, his expression eased, and he slid a hand from my thigh to my hip and stomach, around my side to the dip of my waist, his long fingers flexing on my lower back. His hands weren’t shaking or fumbling; they were certain and sure, methodical, careful.
Meanwhile, I was on fire, restless, feeling needy, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt the moment any part of his bare skin or tongue or lips came in contact with the ache at the center of my body, I was going to come embarrassingly fast.
I tried to regulate my breathing, but I couldn’t. How his eyes followed the path of his hands on my body, the way he licked his lips—another flick that looked reflexive rather than planned—as he bent his head to my chest, the sight of his mouth closing over my breast . . . it all robbed me of breath.
And then the hot, swirling, wet slide of his tongue against my nipple made me cry out. I arched my back, closing my eyes, my body trembling and tensing around absolutely nothing. I was in free fall, and I felt so empty. This was insane.
Fuck. I was going to come. I was going to come, and his touch was still just a light whisper between my legs. I sucked in a breath, working frantically to brace myself, pace myself. But then he withdrew his mouth, giving me just the sight of his tongue tangling with the hard peak of my nipple as his hand slipped unhurriedly into the waistband of my panties with sure, authoritative movements. My breath hitched, and he made this delectable growling sound in the back of his throat, the pad of his middle finger sliding between my folds and circling my clit once.
Just once.
Just fucking once!
And I came. I came, and I heard myself come, and I wanted to cringe at the helpless, high-pitched keening sounds I made, but I couldn’t contemplate anything other than how badly I needed this, needed this pure fantasy of a man, with his certain movements and sexier-than-hell smiles.
I hadn’t quite finished making a fool of myself, my orgasm not yet spent, when his hands began moving again, hooking into the waist of my underwear to pull them down. They left my body, then his mouth was back on my breast, his kisses hungrier this time, the suction harder. He palmed and massaged my other breast, pinching and twisting and just generally abusing my nipple in the best way possible, another growl escaping him as I gave a throaty cry.
My arms behind me started to shake, and so he wrapped one of his around my body, supporting me. I felt the muscles beneath his coat and shirt flex, squeezing me tighter. I was cold and hot, goose bumps all over, and my teeth chattered. But I didn’t care because Deputy James was now kissing my stomach, and then lower, and then lowering himself, his tongue swirling and tasting my skin on his way down.
“Lie back.” His order was gruff, and I was surprised when he followed it with a soft, “Please.”
The please wasn’t necessary. I was more than happy to do as I was told, but I did lift my head so I could watch him lift my legs and spread me wide and place a biting kiss on the inside of my thigh.
And then—oh mygod ohmygod ohmygod—he fully extended that glorious mouth muscle of his and he licked me exactly how he had the ice cream. When guys had gone down on me in the past, it had always been a slow, warm build over a long period, with a few misfires and adjustments. But not this time. This time it was all hot electricity and scorching shocks racing from my lower abdomen to my fingertips and toes.
I made more cringey and helpless high-pitched noises, my fingers grabbing the thick tufts of his golden hair, and he licked and licked and licked, the hairs of his short beard a sharp, stinging contrast to the velvet of his tongue, the sounds he made positively and unapologetically indecent, and so mind-blowingly erotic.
I didn’t want another orgasm, not yet, but I honestly had no choice. I had no control over the speed and force of my climax, especially not when he slipped long fingers inside me and hooked upwards, instantly finding and massaging my G-spot like someone had given him a damn map.
Insane. I felt insane. This was insane. He was magical. He was unreal. I cried out, and then my cries became growls and rough curses, my hips pivoting and jerking gracelessly until my entire body locked, every muscle involuntarily flexing as spasms of pure, incandescent pleasure tore me in half from head to toe.
I’d never locked up during an orgasm before. I’d always been in control of my body and how it reacted to manly ministrations or my army of vibrators. So this—losing control of my limbs and the sounds I made—was a new and bewildering experience for me. It was like . . .