I had some idea. I sounded unhinged. The quiet photographer who couldn’t manage four words at breakfast was moaning on a platform. Every sound was echoing off the rafters. I was past the point of caring because his mouth was moving lower, his hands sliding down my ribs, over my hips, reaching for my jeans.
I lifted my hips and helped him pull them down. His lips followed, kissing my stomach, the curve of my hip, the soft skin of my inner thigh. Every kiss was deliberate and warm. I could feel his breath on my skin, the scratch of his stubble, and I was shaking. He knelt on the floor and I was sitting on the edge of the stage with my legs open and Wade Bishop between my thighs, and this was actually happening to an actual person who was actually me.
He pressed his face to me through the cotton of my underwear and I jerked hard enough to plant both palms on the stage behind me. His breath was hot through the thin fabric. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading me wider. When hehooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled the underwear down I helped him with a desperation that would have been embarrassing if I’d had any shame left. I did not. My shame was on the floor with my blouse. They could keep each other company.
“God, Layla.” His voice was wrecked. He was looking at my pussy with the focused intensity of a man who had just found exactly what he wanted and intended to take his time with it. “You’re so wet.”
“Your fault,” I managed.
He grinned against my thigh and the dimple pressed into my skin and then his mouth was on me and I cried out.
He licked me slow and thorough, his hands anchoring my thighs, and the sounds I was making echoed off the Saloon rafters and I could not bring myself to care. He was good at this. He was devastatingly, unfairly, life-alteringly good at this. His tongue circled my clit and flattened and flicked, learning me, finding where my breath caught and then doing it again until my thighs were trembling at his ears. He slid two fingers inside me and curled them and found a spot that made my vision go white at the edges.
“Right there,” I gasped. “Wade, right there, please don’t stop—”
He didn’t stop. His tongue worked my clit in steady circles while his fingers stroked deep and I shattered. The orgasm tore through me hard and bright. I grabbed a fistful of his sandy hair and held on, and the sound I made was not a word in any language.
He gentled but he didn’t pull away. His tongue kept circling, his fingers still buried inside me, easing me through the aftershocks. Then he groaned into my pussy and the vibration sent a sharp bolt through me that arched my spine. He sealed his lips around my clit and sucked, and his fingers curled again,and the second orgasm hit before the first one had finished. I came saying his name with my head thrown back and the light blurring above me. Somewhere in the back of my wrecked brain I thought: three years of a celebrity crush did not prepare me for this.
He stood up, dragging the back of his wrist across his mouth, and the look on his face was destroyed. His eyes were dark, his chest heaving, his hair wild from my hands. The ridge of his cock strained at the front of his jeans, and my mouth watered. I wanted him with a ferocity that surprised me because I had never wanted anything this much in my life.
I reached for his belt. My hands were shaking and he covered them with his and helped me work the buckle free. I pulled the zipper down and freed him and he was thick and hard and hot in my palm. I stroked him and he groaned, low and rough, his head bowing toward my shoulder. I ran my thumb over the head and he jerked in my grip and swore under his breath and I felt powerful. I felt drunk on it. I, Layla Rigsbee, ranch photographer, owner of an embarrassing number of saved photos of this man, had Wade Bishop swearing and shaking in my hand.
“Your turn,” I said, and slid off the stage to my knees.
I took him in my mouth and his hips jerked forward and the sound he made sank into the ache between my legs that hadn’t stopped since he’d first touched me. I wanted to take my time. I wanted to savor him as he’d savored me, with the same careful attention he gave a melody he was writing for the first time.
I sucked him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, my tongue working the underside, my fist wrapped around what my lips couldn’t reach. He tasted of clean skin and salt and want, and he was heavy and warm on my tongue. His fingers tangled in my hair and his thighs were trembling under my palms. I took him deeper and he shuddered. I did it again because his voicecatching on my name was rapidly becoming my favorite sound on earth, and I intended to hear it as many times as possible. I looked up at him. His head was tipped back, his throat working. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I never wanted to stop.
“Layla.” His voice came rough and shattered above me. “God, Layla — you need to stop or this is going to be over before I get to feel you.”
I pulled off with one long drag of my tongue along the underside, and the strangled noise he made was going into my personal archive along with the concert clips. I stood up and kissed him and we tasted of each other and his hands locked on my hips, possessive and tight. His cock was hot and hard between us, and I rolled my hips into him and watched his eyes go dark.
“I want you inside me,” I said, and the words came out sure.
He paused long enough to look at me. “I don’t have anything with me. Are you—”
“IUD,” I said. “And I’m clean.”
“Same.” His thumb traced my hip. “You’re sure?”
“Wade. I just had you in my mouth. I am sure.”
He lifted me back onto the stage edge and pulled me to the very lip of it. I wrapped my legs around him. He gripped himself and ran the head of his cock through my wetness, slow, teasing, and the sound I made was not dignified.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and pushed inside me.
Slow and deep, inch by inch. The stretch and the fullness and the heat of him filled me completely and I tightened around him and his breath caught and we both went still. He was big, and I was swollen and sensitive from his mouth, and every nerve ending I owned was reporting for duty simultaneously.
He pulled back and pushed in again, deeper, and I moaned. He did it again and my head fell back. He did it again and I dugmy fingers into his shoulders because the feeling of him was so intense it needed an anchor.
“Look at me,” he said.
I met his gaze. His blue eyes held mine and he moved inside me with a rhythm that was slow and intentional, and I felt every inch. I was soaked and sensitive and each stroke sent heat pulsing low and tight, building on the last. His palms pinned my hips, tilting me so that each thrust hit deep.
“This,” he said, his voice strained. “You, right now, looking at me. This is what I see when I look at you. This is what I’ve been seeing since Monday. The most gorgeous woman on this ranch and she doesn’t even know it.”
He was still talking to me the way he’d talked to me through the camera — telling me what he saw, refusing to let me hide from it — except now he was inside me and his words were ragged and every one of them carried the same force.
