Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (most inspirational books .txt) 📗

shrugged. “I guess . . . because you’re standing and heading for the door.”

Silence. Then, “I was going to make you a cup of coffee.”

I blinked. “It’s nearly ten.”

The barest hint of pink appeared on her cheeks. “It’s the only thing I know how to make besides sundaes.”

Laughter bubbled in my chest. “Coffee and sundaes sound like a good combination.” I stepped closer, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Also, it just so happens that I have the fixin’s for both.”

“Fixin’s?” she asked, not backing away, even when I pressed closer.

“Yup.” My mouth drifted to hers, pausing with the barest millimeter of space between our lips. “Fixin’s.”

“Mmm.” A beat. “How’s your head?”

My brows drew together. “Fine.”

“And your arms?”

“Also fine.”

“And your—”

“Every part of me is fine.”

Her eyes, deep pools of melted chocolate, sparkled with laughter. That same laughter also bubbled out of her lips, filling the air with the lovely tinkling sound of her amusement. “Okay, well, Mr. Everything is Fine”—she wound her arms around my shoulders—“do you feel fine enough for me to make you sundaes and coffee?”

Even if I’d been a broken, useless heap, I would have found the strength to be fine enough to do anything for this woman.

Which was why I took her hand and led her to the kitchen.

Chapter Ten

Dominque

I smacked Archer’s hand away. “I said, no touching!”

He laughed and leaned a hip against the counter, his smile a bright flash of white in the dim light of the kitchen. “I didn’t think it was possible for someone to truly summon the power of a tornado inside.”

Studying my work, I scooped out some more chocolate ice cream and plunked it into Archer’s bowl. Perfect. He was a big man, needed to have plenty of calories to fuel those delicious thighs. As to why I had the same amount of ice cream in my bowl, well, I’d worked hard that evening by pushing him out of the path of an oncoming car and tending to his wounds—cough, scrapes—so that definitely required extra calories courtesy of ice cream.

I set the scoop on the counter, picked up the can of whipped cream, and began spraying it on my confection. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He picked up the scoop, used a paper towel to wipe beneath it, before placing it in the sink. “You equal tornado.”

I made a face. “You’re one of those, aren’t you?”

“One of what?”

“A neat freak.”

He clamped his hand to his chest, pretended to stagger back. “You wound me with such rhetoric.”

I sprayed more whipped cream, and yeah, maybe I got a bit on the counter. So what?

Archer swooped in, snagged the can from me, and snapped on the lid, returning it to the fridge, before coming back and wiping up my mess. “Aside from strongly believing in the healing qualities of cleaning, I don’t like to touch sticky shit.”

I chuckled. “No, you don’t like to get your hands dirty.”

He snorted.

“What?”

He ignored my question, asked, “Do I get hot fudge on my sundae? Cherries, nuts, and sprinkles?”

Since it was furthering my consumption of ice cream calories, I picked up the bottle of hot fudge, drizzled it over both bowls, and paused because I’d spilled a few drops outside the bowls.

Drops.

Blobs.

What was the difference?

He snagged the bottle, wiped the top.

I smothered a smile and went to work on the cherries, the nuts, the sprinkles. “You know what you need?” I asked, deliberately dropping a few of the nonpareils onto the counter, just to see what he would do.

“What?” he asked, sweeping them into his hand and walking them to the trash can, dumping them in.

“A robot vacuum.”

He laughed. “Or a sundae maker who doesn’t delight in torturing me.” He dipped a finger in the bowl—

“Hey, that’s mine!” I exclaimed, batting him away. “Hands off the—”

He painted the whipped cream, syrup, and ice cream mixture over my lips.

I shuddered.

Fucking hell.

Then his lips were on mine, and his tongue was in my mouth, and I forgot all about tormenting him with sprinkles and hot fudge. Instead, I just pressed closer and sank into the kiss. Chocolate and spice, sweet on my tongue, heat against my front, hands in my hair, a hard cock against my stomach.

I moaned, jumped slightly, totally forgetting about his scrapes until I was already in his arms, but thankfully they didn’t seem to be bothering him because he grasped on to my thighs, coaxed them around his hips, and turned to set me on the kitchen table. Hard wood on my spine. A chair getting kicked out of the way, and then Archer on top of me.

One hand slipped under my shirt, cupped my breast, teased my nipple, and, all the while, he continued kissing me, whipping my desire into a frenzy.

I grabbed any part of him I could—his arms, his ass, his hair, his face. I yanked at his shirt, and he broke the kiss long enough to tear it off, leaned back enough to step out of his jeans, to work on mine.

“Why in the fuck do you keep wearing these fucking torture contraptions?” he muttered, lifting my hips, yanking them down my legs, tearing them off along with my sneakers. They hit the floor with a soft th-wump, and he yanked off my panties, tugged me toward the edge of the table, dropped to his knees.

“Oh fuck,” I breathed as he pressed his mouth to me.

He groaned, the vibration sliding through me. His tongue and teeth and lips worked together, teasing me to a precipice in an unbelievably short amount of time. He slipped a finger inside, reached up to roll a nipple between his fingers.

And I exploded, my orgasm rolling through me in tsunami after tsunami. My lungs sawed, my body was covered in sweat, my limbs limp. “Archer,” I moaned.

“I’m here,” he said, grasping my hand.

“Inside me.”

Hard muscles, a sharp inhale.

And then he moved, and I watched him through hooded eyes as he bent for his jeans, extracted his wallet, and pulled out a condom.

A crinkle.

He