His brows lift as he sits down, and I can see the flicker of disappointment right before I drop to my knees.
‘Oh.’He exhales – sharp, breathless.‘Oh.’
I push his knees farther apart and glance up at him.He’s rock hard, mouth parted, eyes dark and watching every move I make like I’m the only thing he’s ever seen.
He swallows.‘What … are you doing?’
I smirk.‘I’m rarely on my knees for a man, so I suggest you enjoy the view.’
His mouth opens to argue, but no sound comes out.
Smart decision.
I lean forward and press a kiss to the inside of his thigh, just above where his shorts are shoved down.The muscle twitches.I smile against his skin and wrap my fingers around him, slow at first, teasing.I stroke once, then twice, watching his head tip back and his hands clench in my hair.
When I drag the flat of my tongue from base to tip, he groans – deep and wrecked.
‘Jesus, Jamie …’
I go slow – cruelly slow – sucking gently, tongue swirling, lips tight around him.His hips shift, trying not to thrust, trying to be good.I don’t let up.I want him incoherent.I want to ruin him the same way he ruined me.
Judging by the stream of swear words he breathes into the empty kitchen, I’m doing a damn good job.
‘Fuck,’ he rasps, eyes squeezed shut.‘That’s … Shit, Jamie.’
I hum around him in response, just to feel him jolt.My free hand presses to his thigh, holding him in place as I take more, take him deeper.His abs tighten.His hand slides further into my hair.I don’t stop.I want him undone.
When he finally chokes out a warning – ‘Jamie, I’m gonna –fuck!’– I pull back only enough to watch him shudder, his hand fisting tight in my hair, his whole body shaking under me.
When he finally stills, breathing hard, I press one last kiss to his hip and look up.
Luke is staring at me as if I shattered the entire earth and he hasn’t figured out how to put it back together.
‘Holy shit,’ he says.
I lick my lips.‘You’re welcome.’
He grabs my wrist and tugs me gently up towards him, as if he needs me closer, even now.As if he has to make sure I’m real.
I settle into his lap, and he presses his forehead to mine, still catching his breath.
‘Well,’ he says eventually, ‘remind me to insult you more often.’
I grin.‘Careful.You don’t know what else I’ve got planned.’
TWENTY-SIX
In the morning, the sheets are still warm when I reach across the bed to find a dent and a faint whisper of eucalyptus.
‘Luke?’My voice scrapes out, rough and heavy with sleep.
No answer.Just the soft shuffle of denim and the creak of floorboards.
I peel one eye open.He’s standing by the dresser in jeans, shirt, Akubra – waiting.
‘It’s still dark,’ I mumble into the pillow.‘Why are you up?It’s notThe Hunger Games.’
‘The sooner I move the cattle, the sooner I finish,’ he says, voice low and maddeningly alert for how early it is.
