“Me?” I feign umbrage. “I was the helpless lamb.”
“That makes me the big, bad wolf,” she says, sliding her hands up my chest, full of tease.
“More like a wildcat.” I lift her off the floor and crash my mouth to hers.
She wraps around me—legs, arms, all of her. Kissing me back like she’s been counting down the minutes, just like I had.
I bury my face in her neck. She smells sweet, warm. Edible. “I never know what scent to expect with you. What’s this one?”
“Whipped mango and vanilla,” she murmurs. “I’m obsessed with body butters.”
“I’m obsessed with them too.” I lick her throat like I’m tasting ice cream and walk us backward. We drop to the couch with her still wound around me, straddling my lap.
“Ooh. You are ready.” She gives me that little corner-lipped grin as she wiggles against my cock.
“Been like this all night,” I confess, “thinking about you.” Then I kiss her again. Fast tongues, desperate breaths, all greedy tension. Like a prelude to something we both need too much to slow down.
My hands grip the curves of her ass, fingers sliding into the seam of her shorts, and I press my face to her cleavage, fantasizing about fucking that soft, perfect valley. I’m usually an ass man, but with LotI’m into everything. She’s built like she’s made for pleasure, all supple warmth and sensual power.
“Take off your shirt,” she says, her voice breathy, her hips grinding, setting off sparks like flint against stone.
She unbuttons my polo, heat in every motion. Once it clears my head, her fingers comb down my chest, grazing the eagle tattoo, then drift up to my shoulders. She traces the spider. Black ink, still clean and sharp. Her fingertips linger at the thorax where the artist packed in the darkest ink. So dense, it almost turns blue if you catch it in the right light.
It’s more than a tattoo. It’s a memory.
Lot’s eighteenth birthday. We’d gone together to get inked. Her first one. She chose a web. That had been the idea from the start, a marking of how we met. The spider and the web. She got hers on the back of her arm. I held her hand through the buzz and sting, through the thin, intricate lines becoming permanent.
Her hand slides to my waistband. I stop thinking. She pops the snap, then eases down the zipper. I suck in a breath and lift her camisole over her head.
Fuck. Copper nipples peaked like bullets jut out from softly rounded plump breasts. Faded stretch marks make wavy lines on her whiskey-brown skin. She’s like cask-strength bourbon—bold and rich with a smooth burn.
I palm her in my hands. “Nice rack, Web.”
She laughs, nips my bottom lip, and frees my cock. It springs out with so much force it nearly slaps her stomach. “You got this thing insured?”
“Why? You about to break it?”
“Just might.”
I cup her throat, pulling her mouth to mine. “Do damage, wildcat. Ride me hard.”
“Think you can handle all this?” she asks with sex in her grin.
“I might be the one to break you.”
“In your dreams, Jones.” She climbs off my lap and shimmiesout of her shorts. Zero hesitation or inhibition. She’s always been confident. Unapologetically herself. It’s what pulled me in then. It’s what has me still.
I stare at her. Wide, curvy hips, round belly, thick, dimpled thighs. Pussy mostly bare except for a small, shaved triangle in the center and a thin line that trails down between her lips like a martini glass.
My mouth waters and my cock swells.
She fondles one breast and skims her other hand down her stomach, circling her navel where a black onyx dangles from a gunmetal barbell. Then she walks her fingers lower and dips them between her legs.
“Goddamn!” I shuck off my jeans and underwear and stroke my cock from head to root, gaze locked on her play.
She watches me too, lips parted on quick moans, hips slowly rolling. A private show meant to drive me crazy. Deliberate payback for making her beg last night.
But there’s no shame in my game. Pride’s got nothing on hunger.
