HE’D BEEN right.
She had the softest, most wonderful mouth he’d ever tasted. When she’d deliberately handed her bottle to him—that liquid courage she thought he needed—Chase had just about lost his mind. Here he’d been trying to be good, to leave her alone, not to take advantage of her grief and, rather than accept the courtesy for what it was, she thought him a coward? Had she purposely taunted him?
Between the horror outside Mosul, burying a father he’d convinced himself he didn’t give a damn about only to learn otherwise, her pitying glances and the perpetual heat buzzing between them, Chase had been an emotional wreck. Factor in the terrifyingly potent need to be with her—just to have her in his sight—and he knew he was treading on shaky ground.
He pushed everything out of the way and put her on top of the kitchen table. No time for a bed—he wouldn’t make it that far—and besides, it seemed appropriately fitting.
He was about to feast. On her.
Her greedy mouth fed at his, her hands had burrowed under his shirt and currently worked their way along his spine. He’d had a perpetual hard-on since seeing her in that damned robe this morning and wouldn’t have thought that he could want her any more, but he did.
Something about her simply made him crazy. She tripped some sort of primeval button inside him, a caveman switch, if you will, and he wanted nothing more than to possess her. To own her. To kiss every inch of her, suckle her breasts and taste her heat, to bury himself inside her and brand her permanently as his.
It was hot and wild and completely out of the realm of his experience, and if he had the least amount of blood left in the head on his shoulders he would have been terrified at the onslaught of feelings—the power of them, specifically—but every bit of energy was focused in the head below his waist and how fast he could get it inside her. He felt as if he was suffocating in his own desire, and if he could just get inside her, he’d be able to breathe.
She ripped the shirt over his head and tossed it aside, then kissed a path down his neck and laved a male nipple. He shuddered.
Her hands were all over him, slipping and sliding over skin that felt too hot, too sensitive, too ready to do her bidding. He pulled the straps to her sundress down with his teeth, exposing a pair of bare, exquisite breasts, and moaned. “No bra?”
She gently bit his shoulder and worked a hand at the snap of his jeans. Her breath was ragged and low and her fingers were gratifyingly unsteady, as though she needed this just as much as he did.
“It was built into the dress,” she explained.
He palmed a plump breast, admired a rosy nipple before taking it into his mouth. “Brilliant design. I think all of your clothes should be made like this.”
Her mouth opened in a silent gasp of pleasure. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He thumbed the other peak and sucked deep. “You’re driving me out of mine.”
Her hand slipped beneath his boxers and wrapped around his pulsing shaft, then she worked the slippery skin against her palm. “Hi, Pot. Meet Kettle,” she said, laughing. “You think I go around having sex on kitchen tables all the time?”
“Every guy wants to be original, so I would hope not.” Nudging her teeny panties aside, he found her hot and wet and ready. He stroked her with his fingers, knuckling the tender nub nestled at the top of her sex while pushing a single finger deep into her tight channel. She fisted around him, squirming against his questing hand. Her back sagged against the table and he quickly looped her legs over his shoulders and replaced his knuckle with his tongue.
Feast, indeed.
Her taste exploded over his tongue and he groaned with pleasure. She was all sweet and womanly and the feel of that soft, soft skin beneath his lips was incredibly arousing. He felt a single bead of moisture leak out of the head of his penis and felt his legs shake beneath him. Rorie’s hands were on her breasts and she tweaked her nipples with every lave of his tongue against her swollen clit.
The sight of her touching herself was the single most sexy thing he’d ever seen in his life.
He fumbled around for his wallet, extracted the emergency condom he kept there and quickly rolled it into place. A second later he was nudged up against her folds. The sundress—floral, of course—was hiked up around her thighs and lay in a bunch beneath her breasts. Her aqua eyes were dilated and heavy-lidded and her mouth was plump from his kisses.
Pearled nipples, naked thighs, hot, wet…
He braced himself, pushed in and angled deep. He took the gasping breath of a drowning man who’d just tasted air and locked his knees to keep them from giving way.
The sensation, the absolute sheer perfection of the two of them together—him inside her—astounded him. His gaze found her equally astonished one and, in that instant, he felt his future twist, tangle and twine inexplicably with hers.
The shock of that knowledge detonated through him, but he determinedly ignored the blast. He’d think about it later. He withdrew and plunged again, desperation making his knees weak. Right now he just wanted her.
IF ANYONE would have told her she’d be acting like a wanton hussy, having sex with a man she’d known of but hadn’t really known on a kitchen table the day after a very painful funeral, Rorie would have raided their purse for their happy pills and escorted them to rehab posthaste.
She’d always heard that funerals made people more thankful to be alive and therefore more desperate to affirm their own vitality by having sex and, while she could certainly see where that might be true, she knew for a fact that wasn’t the reason her legs were wrapped around Chase’s waist and she had sweet potato casserole in her hair.
She wanted him with a ferocity—a need—that bordered on the insane. It was powerful and raw and wild and with every push of the long, hard length of him inside of her she could feel that crazy energy building in what she knew was going to be the most powerful orgasm of her life.
And it felt as though it had been a long time coming.
“You make me…want to crawl out…of my own skin, you know that?” he asked her, thrusting so hard she could feel his taut balls slapping against her sensitized flesh.
She laughed, clamped her feminine muscles around him and wrapped her hands over the perfect globes of his ass. “I…might have…a general idea, yes,” she said, panting.
A sizzling tingle built deep in her womb, a bright glow that, like a puff of air against a kindling fire, grew more luminous with every stroke of him deep inside her. He was perfectly proportioned, perfectly sculpted and so achingly, beautifully male that it almost hurt to look at him. Mine for the moment, she thought, giving his rear a possessive squeeze. The little movement seemed to give him a thrill and he pushed harder and deeper and harder still.
The old but thankfully sturdy table squeaked in protest and with every thrust she could hear the dishes rattle farther toward the edge, but she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the feel of him deep inside her, the utter perfection of his skin beneath her mouth, the taste of him against her tongue, the look in his eyes as he pistoned in and out of her, as though he were just as caught up in this mindless insanity of need as she was. Every muscle in his body was tensed and ready, and the breath coming in hard little puffs out of his lungs sent a thrill of feminine pleasure through her.
She was doing this to him. She was making him lose it.
The heady thought made that glow burst into a white-hot flame and three strokes later, she screamed and bucked beneath him as the orgasm suddenly crested. He pushed harder, faster, pounding into her. She came to the tune of the dishes shattering on the floor. Her vision blackened around the edges, her lungs refused to work, her mouth opened in a long silent scream and her back literally left the table as the release swept through her, convulsing through her body in wave after wave of wonderful, orgasmic bliss.
She drew her knees back, giving him more access, and she tightened around him while giving his ass another squeeze. He came then, seated himself so firmly in her that she didn’t know where he began and she ended and she didn’t care. In that instant they were one flesh, united in the sublime perfection of the best orgasm of her life.
His breath came in jagged little puffs and he jerked and pulsed inside of her, setting off little sparklers of pleasure deep inside her womb. Tension melted out of every muscle and the smile that slid over her mouth was absolutely euphoric. She knew she looked like a smitten moron and she didn’t care.
She slid a finger up his spine and he drew back to look at her.
“I think that you’re going to have to take advantage of me again,” Rorie said.
He grinned. “I’m going to need more beer.”
She was still breathless, but managed to chuckle. “I’ll buy stock in Anheuser-Busch.”
His smile faded a bit, turned serious. “I leave in two days.”
Rorie understood exactly what he meant. I’m temporary. This won’t last. I can’t stay. And if she’d learned anything from Holland, it was that. Chase would leave. But she was going to get as much of him as she could before that happened and she’d deal with the consequences later.
“Then we’d better not waste any time, huh?”