heat. A man‟s power and strength, rendered motionless, reined in by her touch. She wondered if she bit hard enough to break skin, if he would let her, take her need to inflict pain and let the desire to accept it from her become overwhelming.
“I want to touch you. Kiss you.”
She wasn‟t ready for that, so she shook her head. “I want to touch you, ” she said instead. “While you drive.”
He opened the car door for her, and she got in. After he made sure her seatbelt was fastened, he strode around the front of the car. Though he kept his gaze on her face, she let hers course over him, blatantly appreciating the way he moved. As a stage player, he could probably stride with warrior purpose, lazily saunter, or manage a seductive swagger with lots of hip. He was mesmerizing to watch, but she had another way she wanted to appreciate him.
As he got in on his side and lifted the key, she closed her hand over his, not hampering him but holding on as he put it in the ignition and turned it over. He‟d shed his jacket from the morning and had rolled up his sleeves at some point. She let her hand glide down his wrist, his forearm. The mask made her feel brave. Dangerous.
“Will you keep two hands on the wheel?”
“I‟ll do anything you tell me to do.” As if he read her intent and was already feeling the arousal from it, he said it with a soft fierceness, nothing meek about his compliance.
Not when his body was like a taut wire that, if snapped, might wrap around her and bring her the sharp edge of his loss of control. Giving her a look that made the mask feel even more erotic in its close hold on her face, he put the Jeep in drive, put his hands on the wheel and headed out for the main highway that would take them to her home.
She knew she should care about whether she was being a hazard as he navigated the busy traffic, but it wasn‟t a reckless self destruction. She knew he‟d keep her safe, just as she knew he wouldn‟t take his hands off the wheel until she said he could, because it was the requirement itself in addition to the explosive energy between them that brought it to a combustible level.
She slid her fingertips under the sleeve to find the crease of elbow, the tender skin there at odds with his firm, tanned forearm and callused hand. While she did that, she put the other hand on his knee, and began to move upward along faded denim.
He shifted, though she sensed his self-imposed restraint. It made her want to test that leash. She slid higher. Stressed denim loved Brendan‟s body, outlining the lean thighs and cradling his groin. As her touch progressed, he adjusted his legs apart for her, anticipating her desire before she had it. The inseam curved over his testicles, tempting her to cup him there. She wanted to stroke the base of his cock with her thumb, a straining thick crescent beneath the zipper, not enough room to expand to its tumescent length. But she didn‟t touch him yet, leaving her hand high on his thigh.
His throat worked as he swallowed, his fingers tight on the wheel. Long, strong fingers. She thought of him last night, and imagined how he gripped and stroked his organ, starting slow and teasing, getting faster and faster, rougher, his body jerking as his climax finally spurted, wetting his abdomen and thighs as she listened, breathless, on the other end of the line.
Her hand was so close she could feel the pulse of blood in his groin, the heat emanating from it. He‟d merged onto a familiar stretch of two-lane highway edged with mature oaks dripping Spanish moss. Not the interstate, that would have been too impersonal. Too separate from the smell of marshy land dotted with small lakes. She was conscious of the dwellings they passed, trailers and fishing getaway cottages nestled on overgrown lots. Other, more opulent homes were set back on manicured lawns, interspersed with cottage clusters, the occasional citrus groves or fields with cows and horses. The eclectic zoning of
“I want to touch you. Kiss you.”
She wasn‟t ready for that, so she shook her head. “I want to touch you, ” she said instead. “While you drive.”
He opened the car door for her, and she got in. After he made sure her seatbelt was fastened, he strode around the front of the car. Though he kept his gaze on her face, she let hers course over him, blatantly appreciating the way he moved. As a stage player, he could probably stride with warrior purpose, lazily saunter, or manage a seductive swagger with lots of hip. He was mesmerizing to watch, but she had another way she wanted to appreciate him.
As he got in on his side and lifted the key, she closed her hand over his, not hampering him but holding on as he put it in the ignition and turned it over. He‟d shed his jacket from the morning and had rolled up his sleeves at some point. She let her hand glide down his wrist, his forearm. The mask made her feel brave. Dangerous.
“Will you keep two hands on the wheel?”
“I‟ll do anything you tell me to do.” As if he read her intent and was already feeling the arousal from it, he said it with a soft fierceness, nothing meek about his compliance.
Not when his body was like a taut wire that, if snapped, might wrap around her and bring her the sharp edge of his loss of control. Giving her a look that made the mask feel even more erotic in its close hold on her face, he put the Jeep in drive, put his hands on the wheel and headed out for the main highway that would take them to her home.
She knew she should care about whether she was being a hazard as he navigated the busy traffic, but it wasn‟t a reckless self destruction. She knew he‟d keep her safe, just as she knew he wouldn‟t take his hands off the wheel until she said he could, because it was the requirement itself in addition to the explosive energy between them that brought it to a combustible level.
She slid her fingertips under the sleeve to find the crease of elbow, the tender skin there at odds with his firm, tanned forearm and callused hand. While she did that, she put the other hand on his knee, and began to move upward along faded denim.
He shifted, though she sensed his self-imposed restraint. It made her want to test that leash. She slid higher. Stressed denim loved Brendan‟s body, outlining the lean thighs and cradling his groin. As her touch progressed, he adjusted his legs apart for her, anticipating her desire before she had it. The inseam curved over his testicles, tempting her to cup him there. She wanted to stroke the base of his cock with her thumb, a straining thick crescent beneath the zipper, not enough room to expand to its tumescent length. But she didn‟t touch him yet, leaving her hand high on his thigh.
His throat worked as he swallowed, his fingers tight on the wheel. Long, strong fingers. She thought of him last night, and imagined how he gripped and stroked his organ, starting slow and teasing, getting faster and faster, rougher, his body jerking as his climax finally spurted, wetting his abdomen and thighs as she listened, breathless, on the other end of the line.
Her hand was so close she could feel the pulse of blood in his groin, the heat emanating from it. He‟d merged onto a familiar stretch of two-lane highway edged with mature oaks dripping Spanish moss. Not the interstate, that would have been too impersonal. Too separate from the smell of marshy land dotted with small lakes. She was conscious of the dwellings they passed, trailers and fishing getaway cottages nestled on overgrown lots. Other, more opulent homes were set back on manicured lawns, interspersed with cottage clusters, the occasional citrus groves or fields with cows and horses. The eclectic zoning of
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