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

That skating joined the quivering in my thighs, the moisture pooling, soaking my panties. “How about we skip the smelling and get right to the fuck part?”

His head lifted, fingers slipping under my chin, tilting it up so I met his stare.

The heat in which nearly melted me into a puddle of goo.

Because it had been a long fucking time since anyone had looked at me with that kind of raw need in their eyes, desire storming through his hazel irises, turning them the color of the damp earth of the forest’s floor, bits of sunshine skimming through the clouds and canopy of trees overhead, heating the air . . . and fanning the flames of that fire banked within me.

Then I was in his arms and his mouth was on mine, and for as much as I liked to talk a big game, as much as I’d orchestrated this, had said that I wanted to skip straight to the fucking . . .

I’d never been kissed like this.

As though I were a passing ship at risk of getting sucked into a whirlpool, circling, circling, circling, and then yanked down into oblivion.

He owned my lips, my tongue.

And I had the feeling he was going to own my body in the very same way.

I shivered in delight, in anticipation.

“Cold?” he murmured, setting me on his bed and straightening to tug off my boots and socks.

“Not in the least,” I said, my chest heaving, my words coming through rapid gusts of breath.

Archer traced a finger over the arch of my foot, and I jumped, toes clenching. “Tickle?” he asked.

“No.” It felt good after my feet had been crammed into boots all night, and what felt better was his rough, warm hands grasping my ankle and digging his thumbs into my arch.

And that felt incredible.

He grinned, massaging my foot for several moments before switching to the other, the sensation so fucking amazing that I’d almost willingly trade orgasms for this man’s massages.

Almost.

Because then he released my foot, letting it fall to the mattress, and crawled over me. “Sure?” he asked, pausing, his hips on top of mine, pressing into me, letting me feel the hard length of him.

“Do you only speak in one-word questions now?”

He bent, pressed his nose to my throat and inhaled. “So fucking sweet,” he growled. He raised his head. “And sometimes you only need one word.”

“How about two?” I asked. “As in: Fuck. Me.”

Archer inhaled sharply.

“Or,” I said, reaching between us for the hem of the clingy, silky tank top I wore, “to add a third: Now.”

His grin was wicked. “Now, I can do.” He pushed up, brushed my hands aside, and tugged off my shirt. It flew over his shoulder, landing somewhere behind him, somewhere I didn’t track because then his palms were on my stomach, my hips, my sides, sliding center and up . . . and stopping, just below my breasts.

And staying there.

Just below my breasts.

For an eternity.

Then one hand shifted, pressed lightly on my sternum while the other slid over my rib cage, slipped under my back, and undid the clasp of my plain black bra. A heartbeat later, his palms were on my breasts, and fuck, that was good. Rough callouses on sensitive skin, nerve endings firing on all cylinders.

My nipples grew harder, beading even tighter against his palms, and he brushed back and forth, back and forth, sparking pleasure through me.

“Do you always move so slow?” I complained, needing this man with a desperation that had gripped me tight in its teeth and was shaking me roughly from side to side.

“Slow is good sometimes,” he murmured, bending and placing his lips against my skin, dragging them up, bringing them closer and closer to the sensitive bud of my nipple. “Slow can make you feel more.” He blew lightly. “Slow can feel better.” His tongue darted out.

I gasped.

“Better, see?” he asked, cocky in every letter, and I didn’t give a damn because then, as every nerve in my body sizzled and prickled, ached and tensed, he took the bud in his mouth and suckled deeply.

My head fell back, my hips jerked up.

And that was the final movement I was capable of.

Because then he sank heavier against me, pinning me to the bed with his lower half while his hands and mouth, teeth and tongue played my body like an instrument, or maybe like a bundle of nerves, or maybe—

“Archer!” I gasped.

“Not a terrible name when you’re moaning it,” he said, releasing my nipple, brushing his beard along the underside of my breasts, dragging his mouth across my skin, lower and lower until he reached the button on my jeans.

One flick of his fingers, and it was open.

A tug, and my zipper was down.

Rough fingers reaching into the waistband of my pants, gripping the denim, my underwear, and leaning back to tug them both down at once. They caught on my ankles, and I spent the next few moments trying to kick them off while he stood up and yanked.

“Fucking skinny jeans,” I muttered.

“Worth it for the things they do to your ass,” he said.

I giggled, using one foot then the other to continue wrestling them down, and eventually, the material slid free, joining my tank top by flying over his shoulder.

And then I was naked.

The raw need in his gaze scorched me.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he said, starting to climb back over me.

I put my foot up, rested it against his chest.

He wrapped his hands around my ankle, stroked up my calf, brushed past my thigh, fingers lightly massaging the underside of my ass. “What is it, beautiful?”

“Naked,” I ordered, leaving my foot in place even as my hips canted with each touch of his calloused fingertips.

“Yes,” he said, those fingers not stopping. “You’re gloriously naked.”

“And now, I want you to be naked,” I told him, slipping my leg free and sitting up, reaching for the hem of his T-shirt. “That’s how this game works.”

“Is it?” He let me tug up his shirt, took over