“Yes.” Then he lowered his head and trailed his mouth up the same territory his hands had just traversed. When he reached the hem of her skirt, he pushed it to her waist to give his mouth and hands access to everything he wanted.
“That’s not very…fair,” she whispered. “Ohhh…”
Her complaint trailed off when he lifted her long, gorgeous legs skyward, and crouched low, one knee on the floor, the other on the seat. His breath fanned her as he spoke. “Now that’s a very pretty picture.” He placed his thumb at her threshold.
“Rafe!”
“Quiet,” he reminded her, and teased her clit with the very tip of his tongue. At the same time, he eased his thumb inside, using the pad to trace a slow circle along her inner wall in a move that mimicked what he’d done in her mouth moments ago.
She shivered around him and her moan filled the back of the limo. He would have teased her about the volume, but the need to hear her uncensored moan again enslaved him as powerfully as the craving to taste her one last time. He should have been the one in control, but she seduced him with her hands tied. Literally. All she had to do was breathe.
Need brutalized him, but he kept his touch on her gentle. Punishingly gentle. The impatient edge to her moans told him she expected—demanded—he plunge her into ecstasy as hard and fast as possible. He refused. They’d have time for hard and fast, right after he shattered her so slowly, thoroughly, and irrevocably, her lips would instinctively form his name every single time she orgasmed for the rest of her na
tural life.
He closed his mouth around her clit, kissing her, rewarding each delicate pulse with a light, devastating lick. He kept the sweep of his thumb teasingly shallow, even when those low, husky moans turned to pleas. Her heels dug into his shoulders. Her hips rocked in a rhythm he recognized. He allowed her three hard, purposeful pumps before he pulled away.
The sudden move wrenched a very heartfelt, “God damn you,” out of her, which coaxed a smile out of him. “I’m certain he does, Miss Wayne.”
Stormy brown eyes locked on him. He rolled the condom on as quickly as possible, because although he enjoyed toying with her, he had sympathy for the condition he’d left her in. His cheek would be sporting her palm print by now if she had use of her hands. Perverse as he was, the thought of her slapping his face and ordering him to fuck her made his already stiff cock swell to new dimensions, and turned the process of rolling the condom on into a form of torture.
With the job done, he ran his hands along the backs of her thighs, spreading her legs, and guiding them higher, until her toes touched the upholstered ceiling of the limo. “Right there. Don’t move.” He leaned in, using his body to help support hers.
“I can’t,” she said, but held the position nonetheless. Sweat slicked her skin. Her cheeks flushed from the strain of complying.
That kind of effort deserved encouragement. “You can and you will, Miss Wayne.”
He braced a hand on the ceiling, hooked the other under her ass, and hitched her up another crucial inch. The glide of his cock along her center had her groaning, and him biting back a curse, because Miss I Can’t suddenly had the strength to fidget her hips all over the damn place. Eventually, he got them lined up. He felt huge and ruthlessly hard against her soft, giving center.
“I can’t do it. I’m going to scream.”
“No,” he managed, and eased his thumb into her mouth again. She moaned as he stroked her tongue. “Nobody’s going to scream.” He nearly broke his own rule when she sealed her lips around the base of his thumb and sucked as if the motion of her lips could somehow pull him into her…fill every void.
And maybe they could, because the next thing he knew, he was thrusting deep. Over and over. Through sweat-stung eyes, he watched her arch up to meet him, felt the pinch of her teeth as she locked her jaw. The hot, tight channel cradling his cock contracted, pulling him into a sudden, almost painful climax. And all the while a single thought repeated in his mind.
More…
Dammit.
He opened his eyes, blinked down at Chelsea, and froze. She’d turned her face away, but even with her eyes closed he could see tears leaking from the corners. Heart in his throat, he quickly reached over and unhooked her wrists.
“Jesus.” He pulled her into his lap, smoothed her skirt down, and cupped her wrists. His thumbs swept over the soft, pale skin. “Did I hurt you?”
She buried her face against his throat and shook her head. Not a tremendous relief, because he could feel her hot tears on his neck.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.” The words tickled his skin. “Just a little overwhelmed. Can you give me a minute?”
He tried to pull back and look at her, but she dug her fingers into his shirt and held on. “Chelsea—”
“Don’t,” she said, but let go of his shirt and gave a small, uneven laugh. “I’m the world’s ugliest crier.”
Relief washed over him, so profound he almost laughed. He had enough experience with women to concede he might never understand what he’d done to bring her to tears, but this reaction, at least, he understood. Arden always insisted the ugliest crier honor belonged to her. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed her temple. “Always.”
But sitting here, watching her, would only add to her discomfort, so he handed her a fistful of tissues from the box tucked discreetly in a side console, and then occupied himself untangling her bra and helping her into it.
By the time she finished wiping her tears and aimed her doe eyes at him, he’d gotten her blouse on and his own clothes in reasonable order.