“Do I?” I ask, goading her to say it. To acknowledge that she likes being restrained.
“Banks,” she grumbles, annoyed but aroused, as she grinds down against my hard length.
“Answer me, Ripley. What do I mean?” I repeat.
“You’re such a dick,” she bites out.
I laugh, then bring my mouth down on her collarbone, nipping her there. She tastes so good. The scent goes to my head, fries a few more brain cells, and makes it harder for me to tease the hell out of her. “You taste like lavender.”
“What a surprise,” she deadpans, but then her retort fades, turning into a sharp hitch in her breath.
I grip her wrists tighter. She moves faster. “Tell me what you like about this,” I demand.
“You ass,” she mutters.
Fine, she’s not too soft when lust takes the wheel. Guess I was a little wrong. She’s still all fire. But the thing is, she’s also not in control. I am. I let go of her face to grab her hip and lift her off my dick, breaking the contact. “Tell me,” I say again, sternly, meeting her eyes.
“Fine. I like where your hands are,” she says, a needy admission.
Because I know that was hard for her, I reward her, yanking her back down on my hard-on. Then I punch up my hips, giving her more of what she wants.
“Use me, sweetheart,” I say.
She rocks against me faster, her mouth falling open, her eyes squeezing shut. It’s so fucking beautiful the way she’s chasing release on the side of the road.
I give her what she needs. My lips on her neck, my fingers curled around her wrists, my hand caressing her breast, squeezing a nipple through her shirt and her bra.
“Ohhh,” she murmurs, then her head falls forward, resting against the side of my face, giving me another hit of her sweet scent. Maybe it’s lavender shampoo.
She’s too pretty, too aroused, too needy. And I just can’t resist her. “Can you come like this?” I ask, and I’m the desperate one now. I need her orgasm more than anything. “Or do you want fingers?”
“Yes,” she says on a staggered breath.
“Which one?” I demand since I may be desperate, but I fucking love to play.
She grinds hard against me. “Fingers. Now.”
“Say please.”
“Fuck you. Give me your fingers,” she says.
“Since you asked so nicely.” I let go of her breast, unzip her shorts, and thrust my fingers inside her panties.
She’s slick and hot, and her needy clit is so damn eager for attention. The second I touch her, she’s shuddering. Then gasping,arching, and falling apart with a long, gorgeous cry that I cover with my mouth. You never know who might hear.
As I kiss her tenderly through her release, a healthy dose of pride floods me from theinstant O, just add fingers.
When I let go of her lips, she’s breathing hard, her shoulders heaving. And I catch the far-off sound of an engine.
Or maybe not so far off after all. I jerk my gaze behind us.
Holy shit.
Coming our way on this winding, supposedly quiet road is a black town car. There’s another one behind it. Then an SUV. Just what I need—a goddamn caravan.
I don’t think they belong to photographers. But I can’t know for sure. Besides, it could be anyone. Someone she knows. A customer.
Think fast.
