Anticipation was overrated.
But from his groans—or was that her moans?—and the frantic beat of his heart against hers, she knew the playacting wasn’t going to go on for long.
He wanted one thing. Needed one thing. And truth be told, she did as well. She wanted to feel his naked skin against hers. Feel the hard flex of his muscle moving under her hands as he surged inside her. Gasp at the sensation of that first push. The sweet jolt of shock as his body opened hers. And just for a moment she wanted to feel the connection. She wanted to know what it was like to be close to him, connected if only for a few minutes.
It was going to happen. Not the way she’d wanted five years ago maybe, but she was finally going to have sex with John Donovan.
His mouth slid down her jaw, her neck, her throat. Hedidn’t stop there, smoothly pushing aside her blouse to reveal the swell of her breasts.
The warmth of his breath on her aroused skin made it prickle. Or maybe that was the anticipation of what she knew was going to come as he worked the buttons down.
When he pushed her blouse back to reveal her bra, he paused just long enough to mutter, “Holy shit,” before unhooking the wisp of black lace to show the rest of his admiration with his mouth and tongue.
She guessed he approved of her underwear choice. And maybe the full D cups that were underneath.
She’d caught him checking her out earlier, and it had sent unwelcome flickers of awareness through her body. They weren’t unwelcome now.
She arched when he sucked her deep into his mouth. Moaned when his tongue circled and flicked the taut tip. And felt her legs turn to jelly when he slid his hand between her thighs over the denim of her jeans.
She was glad when he leaned her back onto the sofa. It was too much, and she needed to catch her breath—and racing heart. He pulled off his polo shirt before kneeling on the couch over her.
His expression was as intense as she’d ever seen it, his face tight, his gaze fierce with arousal. He’d never looked sexier, which in his case was saying something.
They exchanged a long, heated glance but didn’t speak. Speaking would mean acknowledging what was about to happen, and neither of them wanted to do that.
She took a moment—that was all she had—to admire the powerful ridges and planes of his naked torso.
Her stomach dropped. Jesus. If she thought he’d been built five years ago, she had a whole new definition now. In addition to a new tattoo on his upper chest of what appeared to be a trident and net, his shoulders were broader, his arms bigger, his chest harder, and the musclemore defined. Sharply defined. Everywhere. The term washboard stomach? She knew where it came from now.
But she’d have to count the lines in the board later. He was pushing her back on the couch, kissing her again, and the heat and solidness of that chest—the shocking sensation of his skin touching hers—was all she could think about.
That, and what was about to happen next.
She hoped it was worth it, because when this was over—in a few minutes, if she didn’t miss her estimate—she was going to hate herself.
•••
Slow down, John kept telling himself. But he couldn’t. It was like a freight train of need barreling down on him. He couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.
And part of him wanted to. The responsible, conscientious part that knew this was a mistake. Unfortunately, that part was drowned out by all the other parts that were saying, “Fuck yes,” and that were thinking this was incredible. That kissing her, touching her, and feeling her in his arms was about the best thing he’d felt in a long time.
And then there was that lust part. The part that made him feel clumsy and anxious as a teenager who couldn’t wait to get inside her.
That part was going freaking nuts. Especially after seeing that bra. Who the hell would have thought that under her modest, businesslike exterior lurked the sexy, slightly trashy underwear taste of a Playboy Bunny—with the chest to match?
Color him shocked. And turned on. Big-time.
Just thinking about those spectacular breasts straining against all that black see-through lace was making his cock hurt.
Or rather, hurt more. He was aching already. Throbbing. Straining against the confines of his jeans.
He didn’t have any place left to go. Check that. One place left to go. And he couldn’t fucking wait.Reallycouldn’t fucking wait. He hadn’t had this kind of anticipation, hadn’t been this wild for anyone in a long time.
He slid his hand over her stomach and dipped between her legs, nearly growling with satisfaction when she gasped and lifted her hips to meet him.
Her responsiveness was part of the problem. Everything was too seamless. Too perfect. Too right. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness. Nothing to think about and plan. The way they moved together was too natural.
Like the moment he stretched on top of her, propping himself up on an elbow so as not to crush her—and have better access—and she slid right under his arm, tucking in tight against his body as if she’d been locked right into position. Then, when the feel of those incredible tits pressed into his chest proved too much and he reached for the button of her jeans, the feel of her hand on his pants nearly made him burst a blood vessel—the important one.
