Every time she tried to fit him in a neat little package—conservatives and the military weren’t exactly known for their enlightened opinions about homosexuality—he did something to surprise her.
“Forget I said anything,” she said, still holding him in her hand and stroking him. “It would be too big a loss for womankind.”
At least an eight-inch loss, but who was counting?
The time for teasing had passed. His jaw was clenched and his body was straining as if he was fighting for control again.
She could feel the pulse of pounding blood in her hand.
His gaze was heavy and hot as it met hers. “Ride me, sweetheart. I want to watch you as you fuck me.”
Surprisingly Annie wanted that, too. She wouldn’t describe herself as adventuresome in bed—missionary usually fit the bill—but he was proving otherwise.
Or maybe it was the casual factor. Maybe it was the no-strings-attached part that was oddly freeing?
Whatever the case, she used her hand to guide him into her as she lowered her body on top of him. Slowly. Savoring the tightness. The stretch. The heat. The inch-by-inch filling.
Until finally she was fully impaled.
Or so she thought. But then he took her by the hips and lifted his own at the same time with a little hitch that made her body twinge. She gasped at the feeling—the rawness of sensation.
It was magical. There was no other word for the closeness, the sense of being connected with another person so intimately and perfectly.
He held her like that for a moment, looking into her eyes with an intensity and emotion that she dared not try to name. But it burned and pounded in her chest.
If she didn’t know better...
Stop. Don’t get confused. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just attraction.
She closed her eyes, breaking the connection, and started to move. Lifting up and down, slowly at first, trying to get the most out of every stroke.
He let her set the pace. His hands moved from her hips to her breasts. He was squeezing, kneading, plying the turgid tips with his big callused fingers.
She wanted to go faster, harder. The slow strokes grew more frantic as the gentle ride became a wild gallop. She had to hold on to him, her fingers digging into the solid ball of muscle in his arms and shoulders.
He was talking to her. Telling her how good she felt. Telling her how hot she was. Telling her how much he wanted her to come. How much he couldn’t wait to come inside her.
He was leading her to him. Lulling her to completion in a dreamlike fantasy. Wrapping a sensual web around them both.
His stomach muscles tightened as his hips lifted to meethers. He held her hips again to bring her down harder. Deeper. She could feel him big and thick and hard inside her. Pulsing.
She was almost...
Right when she’d reached the peak of sensation, he brought her down hard against him and ground himself against her. She cried out her climax just as he did. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
Nothing could have been more perfect.
Their eyes met and there was no mistaking the connection or the emotion. It was right there between them. So palpable she could almost touch it.
And there was nothing casual about it.
Twenty-five
Dean tried to keep his mind on what he was doing. He’d found an Internet café and had been clicking through articles on previous targets of OPF, some of which were more high profile than others. OPF had started out small or rather more localized in their attacks, but gradually their targets had shifted to large conglomerates. North Sea Offshore Drilling was actually a subsidiary of a huge oil company. When there was more than one company involved in something they were “protesting,” they seemed to target the bigger one.
The strategy didn’t make a lot of sense to him. If the object was economic sabotage—to destroy these companies—why hit the one who could absorb it better? Was there something more than ideology at work?
He needed to try to “follow the money.” The popular refrain from the Watergate movie attributed to Deep Throat...
