Page 40 of Legs

And looked.

He rubbed his hand over his jeans, stroking his cock through the fabric, soaking me in like I was a porn star splayed for his amusement. I wanted to touch myself, too. In private, I used my vibrator (the Dildo Incident had its plus side), but I’d never masturbated in front of a man. Now my fingers drifted across my ribs, a slow drag toward my jeans. But I chickened out. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be as bold as Jimmy, who was basically jacking himself off at the foot of the bed.

“Take off your jeans,” I said, eager to see the length of him. Watch him stroke himself.

His blue eyes turned molten, and his jaw slackened. “Not yet. First, I’m going to peel off your jeans and taste you, and you’re going to come on my tongue.”

Yep. A way with words.

Men had gotten me hot before, turned me on, but the second their heads were between my legs, I’d lose the edge of my desire. The burn would slip into a dull ache that would vanish. Easy come, easy go. I’d stress about keeping my abs tight, in case the guy looked up. I’d worry about the position of my legs, if I should touch his head or grip the sheets or groan to show support. (Good job, buddy!) Once, in college, I spent the time reviewing for a test.

Jimmy promised more.

Before he stripped me bare, he covered my body with his. “You’re so fucking hot,” he said. His next kiss was deep and wet, sending me to oblivion. “All that innocence hiding this wild woman. When I’m inside you, I want to hear you scream.”

If he didn’t do something soon, I might have screamed then and there.

I didn’t have to. He reached behind me, unhooked my bra, and dragged it off. His mouth fell to my breast while his hand cupped me over my denim. I rocked into him as he pressed harder. “This needs to happen,” I said, desperate.

“Patience, Sunshine.”

His use of my nickname spurred my desire, as though I were his. A woman he took care of, in the bedroom and out. He worked my body over, lavishing my breasts with attention, sliding lower, kissing my belly, nipping my hips as he dragged off my jeans. He tossed them to the side, never breaking contact. He kissed me over my underwear, his hot breath working me into a frenzy. By the time my cotton thong hit the floor, nuclear war could have been declared. The last iceberg could have melted. As long as I had Jimmy and that tongue and those hands on me, the world could crumble.

His first lick was slow. Divine torture. I let my legs fall wide, not caring how I looked. I threaded my fingers through his hair, the dark strands tangled in my grip, and I rocked toward him, unabashed. Need in my movements. Little moans escaped me. Not on purpose. Not as a way to speed things along. Everything I did was involuntary. I was his marionette, pushed and pulled and lit on fire.

He spread me wide, his tongue flicking over me, the rhythm building. A symphony nearing its crescendo. I dug my heels into his sides, and he groaned, sinking one, then two fingers inside me. The room disappeared. I disappeared. Nothing remained but that one point of contact, all my nerve endings gathered in a tight bud.

Then I exploded. A cry wrenched from my throat, the sound unfamiliar, my body alight. He pushed me further, took me higher, until I was nothing but sensation. Pulsing light. His final lick, slow and languid, had me pulling away, too sensitive to be touched.

He kissed my inner thigh. Even that subtle press made my stomach clench.

“Tell me, Ray, do you still think I lied about the six orgasms?” He knelt over me, fully clothed, caging me with his hands. His lips were wet with my taste. He was deliciously disheveled. All that hair tousled, impossibly thick eyelashes, dark eyebrows set off by blue eyes, slivers of gunmetal swirling at the edges—the man was magnificent.

“I can’t be sure,” I said. “I need to do some further studies. Cover all the variables.” I traced the veins up his inked forearms until my fingers coasted below his cuffed sleeves. “Take this off before I rip the buttons.”

He jumped off the bed and pulled me with him—into him, my naked body pitched against his jeans and belt. The contrast was sinful. “I prefer you to rip,” he said.

Well then. I gripped the edges of his shirt and yanked. Or tried, at least. The thing snagged and didn’t budge. “I’m ruining the sexy,” I said.

He chuckled. “Let’s go with the buttons.”

Impatient, I reached for his jeans instead, unlatching the large belt buckle. If I lifted that sucker, I’d get a killer workout. Next came his button, the slide of metal through frayed denim teasing, too close to what I ached to see. What I had seen but couldn’t remember. I dropped to my knees, undid his zipper, and slid his jeans and black briefs to the floor.

That’s when I said, “What the hell is that?”

“Now you’re ruining the sexy.”

“No. Seriously. What is that?”

“In case you weren’t aware, those are the last words a guy wants to hear when a girl pulls down his pants.”

He sounded amused, and he must have removed his shirt, because the gray plaid pooled beside me, but I couldn’t look up. I could only stare at his cock, thick and hard and standing at attention. “Did you know you have a piece of metal through your penis?”

His answering laugh had the piercing catching the light and winking at me. “I have a vague recollection of getting it done. I’m also having déjà vu. We had this whole conversation last time we hooked up.”

He stepped out of his jeans, but I stayed put, entranced, the floor digging into my knees. He was thick and long. His shaft curved up, the taut skin flushed deep red, and there, on the underside, just below his swollen head was a bar through his skin, a silver ball on either end. I reached for it, but drew my hand back. “Does it hurt, if I touch it?”

“In the best way,” he said, his voice low and rough.