The way he said it. Like it hurt, like it cost him, made her melt. "Really?"
"Woman," he said, "I have made an endless fantasy out of you. But it doesn't match up to this." She had a lot of ques-tions. A lot of questions, but she couldn't ask them, because he moved toward her again and stripped her bra from her body, made quick work of her panties. And she was naked.
Except for her sandals. And suddenly, he was down on his knees unbuckling those. Fully clothed.
Then he kissed her ankle, the inside of her knee. Her inner thigh.
And... And...
She wasn't even going to have to ask him.
Because in fifteen years, Jared had never, not once, ever, gone down on her. And she'd always been afraid to ask. Because if the guy didn't want to do it... Well, what could you do? And asking felt... Well, a lot like asking for flowers.
Which, you could do, but then the flowers didn't mean much.
She hadn't felt like she'd deserved to ask for it.
And suddenly, she didn't need flowers. Not ever. Because his mouth was there. On her. Slick and hot and doing wicked terrible things that she had only ever been able to fantasize about before. Things that had never...
He was growling. Eating his way into her with a ferocity that defied even her darkest fantasies. And suddenly she was being propelled backward, those wide shoulders pushing her thighs wide. Her back was pressed against the wall, against some bland picture of a landscape, while he pushed her thighs up over his shoulders and pinned her there, his lips and tongue playing havoc with her senses.
And she thought she might die.
And then his fingers worked their way inside of her body.
She was so slick and greedy for him that it was easy. That all she could think of was more.
A desperate, deep need for more.
He worked his fingers in and out of her, pushing her up to heights that were dizzying in their splendor. Ratcheting her pleasure up to a degree that seemed impossible.
She was pulling his hair, pushing his cowboy hat off his head, and then, she shattered. Screamed. She was panting, unable to catch her breath, the waves of pleasure pounding through her not like a sweet, fluttering release, nothing quite like the tentative white rabbits of pleasure she'd experienced before.
This wasn't a shy, burrowing animal. It was a whole thun-derstorm. A deluge that she couldn't escape. That wouldn't end.
And he didn't stop.
He kept on licking her, sucking her, thrusting into her.
And on the heels of that first wave came another. Another.
Sweat broke out over her skin, and she felt both more connected to her body than ever in her life, and somehow outside of it all at once.
And then he moved her legs down from her shoulders, no longer holding her up, and she slid down the wall, in front of him. Fully clothed, down on her knees.
"Delicious," he rasped, and she thought she would burst into flames again. But instead of that, she just kissed him, flinging herself at his fully clothed body, the denim of his jeans rough against her sensitized flesh, that slightly ribbed T-shirt abrading her sensitized nipples. He hadn't even groped her breasts. And in her experience that was right where a man would go first.
"That's right where one man goes first. Every single time.
You don't know what men do."