In answer, I balance on my left foot, hold the inside of my right foot and lift it until it’s vertical, my toes pointing at the ceiling. Dax inventories the impressive pose before gripping my bottom, tugging me forward, and burying his face between my thighs.
With a gasp, I drop my leg over his shoulder, my hands on his head. His hair’s too short to grip, so I brace myself on his shoulders. He’s relentless in his endeavor, laving me gently but thoroughly while I fight to keep my other leg under me. I have incredible balance, but I’m not sure my superb stability can stand the test of a Dax-delivered orgasm.
His fingers dance along the seam of my ass and squeeze the flesh possessively as he sucks my clit.
That’s what ultimately sends me over. I rock my hips toward his face, my fingers clutching at his hair, his bare shoulders, wherever I can gain purchase. As my left knee weakens and my body buzzes, I’m suddenly in the air—in Dax’s arms.
He rests my back on the sofa, rolls on a condom, and lowers his big body over mine. I part my thighs to make room for him. Without warning, he slips home.
Filled and surrounded by Dax Vaughn again, a scary thought occurs: I could get used to this.
Chapter 9
Dax
Rain pounds the windows outside with no end in sight, shrouding the cabin and us inside. Becca and I started out hot and heavy, her on her back and me with one knee on the sofa, the other foot on the ground, driving into her again and again.
As the rain eases, I slow to keep time, the drumbeat on the windows the rhythm to which I match each long stroke. Rather than digging her nails into my shoulders some more, she gently sweeps them along my traps instead, her eyes drilling into mine.
Hazel normally, but favoring leaf green in the meager light.
Golden skin glowing, fair eyebrows pinched in pleasure, her mouth drops open as I slide in slow and sure and deliver another orgasm she can’t resist. One that truncates her breath and elicits tight, high mewls from her throat.
Sounds I earned.
I finish her off. She clutches me tightly, eyelids squeezed shut, her moans saturating the air. My release follows—another stroke, and another, and I pump into her, my groan more of a guttural growl.
Hell.
Yes.
I exhale. Place a kiss on her forehead and then one on her temple. She smiles when I dot her jawline with more kisses.
“I don’t know about you, Princess.” I pause to slide out of her warmth. “But I like this eating-interspersed-with-bouts-of-sweaty-satisfying-sex-with-you thing.”
“Is that so?” she asks through a completely sated giggle.
I like that giggle.
“That’s so.” I stamp her mouth with a hard kiss and then deal with the condom in the half bath next to the kitchen.
Angling across the gigantic living room, I shake my head. “This place is ridiculous. It’s more like a mansion on a mountain than a cabin. Not exactly roughing it.”
“I like it.” She’s laid out on her side, her purposefully messy blond head propped up on one arm. She’s posing all those long limbs, but I don’t mind. Anytime she wants to flaunt that beautiful body, I’m game.
Speaking of...
“Have an idea.”
“Wasn’t couch sex your idea?” asks the smart-ass.
“Okay, it’s less an idea and more of a game.” My gaze dances around pert, rose-colored nipples. “It’s called Becca Doesn’t Wear Clothes When She’s in My Cabin.”
“Hmm. Turnabout is fair play. You can’t wear clothes either.”
“Fine by me.” I shrug.
“Will you flex for me?”
“Will I flex for you?” She’s kidding, I assume, but her eager nod says differently.
I fist my hands and pull my arms in, popping my biceps for her. Her smile widens, then she makes a twirling motion with her hand.
“Let’s see the back.”
“Babe.”
“Dax.” She hoists one eyebrow high to let me know she’s serious. With a sigh, I turn, but I drop my arms.
“Flex,” she demands.
I flex and earn another peal of laughter.
“Not your ass!”
I turn and lower to my knees, resting my arms on the sofa cushions. I sample first one nipple, then the other. By the time her hands go lazily to my hair and start ruffling it this way and that, I wonder if we’ll ever need to get dressed again.
“Mind if I grab a shower?” she asks, her voice quiet.
“It’s your vacation too, Princess.”
She sits up and palms my cheek, watching me carefully before delivering a peck to the center of my mouth. Then she’s off the couch and trotting to her room.
I watch her ass wiggle away, smiling in her wake when she flexes those sweet cheeks before sending me a wink over her shoulder.
This girl.
Becca
“He’s so...honest.” I lower my voice and speak into my cellphone as quietly as I can, but the fact that I’m in the bathroom, door shut, attached to my bedroom, also door shut, should be enough of a barrier to keep from being overheard.
I’m not hiding, exactly. And I didn’t lie to Dax—I took a quick shower. Now I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, towel wrapped around me and hair damp, phone pressed to my ear.
“You’re not used to a guy being honest with you?” Porsha’s laugh is the best on the planet. Velvety and deep, and filled with good humor. When I lived in New York, she was my roommate. During those four short months, we became crazy close. I never believed in love at first sight until I met Porsha. She swept me off my feet as my best-friend-forever with scary ease.
“I don’t mean ‘honest’ as in ‘not a liar’; I mean ‘honest’ as in he blurts out what he’s thinking.”
“Ohh, like what?” I can tell her interest is piqued.
“Like...he’s glad I’m here.”
She hums in thought. I filled her in on everything that’s occurred since Friday night, arming her with details. Not too many details. I am a lady.
“He speaks his mind. He sounds like you,” she says. “How’s the sex?”
I blow out a breath. “Amazing. Pretty sure I’m still glowing from that last orgasm.”
I stand and swipe the steam from the mirror to verify. Yep. Glowing.
“Lucky girl. Who other than Becca Stone winds up rained in at a cabin on a mountain with a guy who looks like Channing Tatum?”
“I didn’t say he looked like Channing Tatum. I said he looked like a dancer from Magic Mike. Dax is more rough-hewn than Channing. And probably taller.”
“Well, he sounds dreamy.”
Only Porsha can use the word “dreamy” and not sound ridiculous.
“How’s Tae?” Her Korean hotter-than-hell husband, just so you know.
“He’s great!” she chirps, but follows it with a strained “Busy.”
“And the studio?” I ask about her recently acquired teaching gig with only the barest hint of envy.
“I’m in heaven.” She tells me her schedule and about the mentor she’s picked up. Some famous dancer by the name of Belle Houghton whom I’ve never heard of. While Porsh talks, her voice aerated, my envy evaporates.