Sweet and Dirty by Christina Crooks Page B

flinched at the sensual assault of her hand sliding underneath to caress his stomach. She followed the trail with her lips. Around, up, down his taut belly. She stuffed his shirt up under his pinned arms.
    Pleasure spiked through him as she ran her hands down over his waistline, then traced the juncture of pants and flesh. He noticed his mouth had fallen slightly open only when he shut it so hard his teeth clicked together. She wouldn’t dare. Would she?
    “You don’t think I’ll do it, do you?” She didn’t need to explain what “it” was, not while her fingers investigated just under the rim of his pants.
    Ro was worried. One could only withstand so much.
    When he felt her kneel, his breath caught in his throat. There were her hands again. Stroking his legs, exploring slowly up the back, as if she enjoyed discovering him inch by inch. Her hand brushed across the front of his crotch. His entire body vibrated. He felt a twinge of pain and realized his wrists had strained against his bonds to the point of pinching. “Let me out.”
    “What’s the magic word?” Her voice was a singsong. She was enjoying this? When he had her at his mercy, he was going to take diabolic revenge.
    He determined anew to reveal nothing further. Made his voice bored. “I thought you’d finished playing. When you’re ready to learn how it’s done, let me know.”
    “You’ll know when I’m done.”
    The sensual promise made his stomach sink pleasurably with sudden fierce desire.
    He heard something that made his blood stop, then surge hotly. The whisper of material as she pulled her clothes off. He imagined her lifting her shirt over her head, and the mental image teased him like a feather tickling the inside of his brain. He could almost see it. He could feel it and smell it: Lizbeth held the shirt to his cheek, rubbing it against the rough shadow-growth on his jaw, gliding it under his nose before letting it drop down next to their feet. There was a muted snap; her bra being unhooked. Confirmation came when she treated him to a face rub with those lacy cups, as well. He felt it slither from her fingers to join her shirt at their feet.
    He swallowed audibly.
    The peaks of her breasts were pebble hard when she stepped against him. “Nice,” she crooned in a breathless voice, rubbing herself against him. Shameless and teasing. A bitch in heat. He certainly felt like a stud ready to mount her, rut with her. He could think of little else.
    She slid her hands around his body, to rest on his back. Just when he started to relax, she raked her nails forward, modifying the pressure so that it didn’t break the skin. At the same time she kissed one of his exposed nipples, swirling her tongue around the edges where the thinnest hair grew.
    He hissed with surprise. It made her tilt her nails up and reverse direction so that her fingertips caressed the path she’d taken around his side, soothing him, then reversed again until she could run her fingers up his front with gentleness. “Sure you don’t want to say your word?” she asked. He could only press his lips together as she kissed the nipple, and then just below it. And then lower. His stomach again. Flicking her tongue.
    He knew where she was going; she’d given him enough clues. His restraints rattled as he made a reflexive move backward, then he cursed softly as the rubber spikes reminded him backward wasn’t an option. His hands fisted.
    Her hands rested on the belt of his jeans. She wiggled the leather end, slapping it playfully back down against him. “What was that word again?”
    He could feel the dampness of perspiration on his forehead. With a supreme effort he kept his voice steady. “A pretty, flying insect.”
    Giving an especially forceful slap with the belt, she traced after the path of her slapping with her fingers. Stinging pain, caressing pleasure. Then she began unthreading his belt. He knew the evidence of his arousal bulged against the seam of his pants, but