Riding Steele: Wanted by Opal Carew Page A

police arrived to arrest her had dwarfed the feelings for a while, but then they’d built up again.
    She squeezed him, her aching breasts crushed against his back. She couldn’t stand it any longer. She needed to feel him.
    She ran her hand over the supple leather of his jacket, caressing his chest, but she couldn’t feel
him,
so she slid her hand down and stroked over the front of his jeans. Up and down until she felt a bulge form.
    Oh, God, she wanted him inside her. She pulled his zipper down and slipped her hand inside. As she stroked his thickening cock, still under the scant protection of his boxers, his hand grasped her wrist and held her still. Then he drew her hand away. Undeterred, she glided her other hand over his growing erection and slid under the cotton to wrap her fingers around him.
    If he really wanted her to stop, he could pull over and tell her so. She stroked him and he released her other wrist, grabbing the handlebar of the bike again, his fingers clamping tightly around the grips, just like she gripped tightly around his hard shaft.
    He shifted on the seat, then she felt the bike turn and he pulled off the highway onto a side road. She squeezed his big member, and drew it from his jeans, then stroked his length.
    He veered off the road, then pulled onto the shoulder.
    I guess he wants me to stop.
    He dismounted the bike, drawing himself free of her hold, his face looking stern as he zipped himself back up. Then to her surprise, he slid her forward and mounted behind her. Suddenly, they were speeding forward again, but with his arm snuggly around her waist, pulling her tight to his body. She could feel his erection pressed against her backside, straining against his pants.
    His hand slid up and stroked her breast, then he cupped it and kneaded it in his hand. The wind rushed past her face and she could barely catch her breath. Her nipples, swollen and hard, ached for him. He slid to her other breast and squeezed it, then his fingers traveled down to the hem of her T-shirt and slipped underneath. He cupped her breast again, then tugged down the lace cup to free her nipple. At the feel of his fingertips pinching her sensitive bud, she arched against him, her head resting back against his shoulder.
    The wind rushing past her face … the bike … his touch … all left her breathless and aching for more. He continued to stroke her, alternating from breast to breast. Sometimes cupping and stroking, sometimes teasing her nipples, until her senses were alight with intense desire.
    Then he slid down her belly and unzipped her jeans.
    Oh, God, his fingers slid inside and underneath her panties until he stroked her slick flesh. She opened her thighs wider and his fingers glided over her. She arched forward as he stroked her slick folds. The feel of his calloused, masculine fingers gliding into her soft, wet passage drove her wild.
    Pleasure pulsed through her as he stroked deep inside her, then drew out and touched her clit. She moaned into the wind, then he tweaked and she gasped. He slipped inside her again, this time ignoring her aching clit.
    He alternated, gliding deep inside her, and slipping out to tease her swollen button.
    She wanted him inside her. She
needed
release.
    As if reading her mind, he slowed the bike and pulled off the road. She glanced around and realized they were now on a small dirt road with trees all around. He pulled over and stopped the bike.
    “What the fuck are you doing to me, woman?” He pulled off his helmet as he dismounted, then unfastened hers and pulled it off.
    Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue driving into her insistently. She opened for him and he filled her, driving deep, exploring her mouth with authority, his hands cupping her face.
    Then he drew back and grasped her leg and pulled it over the bike so she was sitting facing him.
    “Take off the fucking jeans.”
    She wiggled them down her hips and he pulled them off her legs. She watched with hunger as he