Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (bill gates books recommendations .TXT) 📗

her knees. She opened; he leaned forward, his palms flat on the sheet right above her hips. Flutters replaced her heartbeat; she could hardly breathe.

He wet his lower lip, captured her gaze and held it as he descended. He kissed her low on her belly, dipped his tongue in and out of her navel, caught the loose skin beneath and sucked it until he left a sexy red bruise. She couldn't remember the last time a man had given her a hickey. This one she would never forget.

And then he moved lower, his coarse whiskers tickling her clit as he made his way down. She wanted to close her eyes, to lie back and enjoy, to do nothing but experience his lips and his tongue, his fingers and his teeth. But he was devilishly compelling, the way he teased her with that brigand's grin, and there was nothing she could do. She had to watch.

Chin tucked to her chest, she did, scooching her feet farther out to the side, her knees falling all the way open. Mick drew in a deep breath and shook his head as if her wanton ways amazed him. She wanted to laugh, to tell him that was nothing, but he closed his lips around her clit, leaving her capable of only a moan.

He sucked her, licked her, dug the tip of his tongue beneath the bud and pushed up, catching her with his teeth. Her hips surged off the bed as he bit her. Her head fell back and she cried her way through the sting of pleasure, shuddered, shivered, shook. Releasing her, he moved lower, nipping at her flesh, drawing on her lips, pressing the flat of his tongue through her folds.

She'd been dying for this orgasm, dying. Yet it was too soon. She wasn't ready. She wanted more of what he was doing. She wanted to teeter on that edge for as long as he'd let her, to hold on and make this night last. When she looked back, it was as if he'd been waiting, wanting her to watch.

He held her gaze, slid his thumbs to her entrance and opened her, then pushed into her with his tongue. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with her effort to hold still, hold on, but her blood was running heavy and hot. Desire pooled in her belly; he found the spot and licked, lapping her up, drinking all that she gave him.

She tried so hard not to come, but her will was no match for her body. Or for his insistence, his lips, which returned to suck her clit, his fingers spreading her moisture as they slid deep, his thumb settling over her puckered rear entrance and pushing.

It was all too much—he was everywhere at once, taking her apart, turning her inside out. She burst, a fantastic pot-of-gold-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow sensation that went on forever. He stayed with her all the way. His fingers, his tongue, his lips.

He never left her, but eased her back to a place where, when she opened her eyes, she was afraid she would find out she'd died. Dear Lord. What else had she been missing? And how soon could he show her?

Stretching out her legs and the kinks from her hips, she groaned. "Can we do that again? Or do I need to change the sheets first?"

He sat back on his knees, his palms on his thighs. She tucked her chin to her chest and stared. At the pulse jumping in his temple. At the tic hammering in his jaw. At the head of his penis bobbing and straining toward his belly. At the lines of pain etched in his face about which he hadn't—and wouldn't—complain.

Finally, he found enough of his voice to speak. It was gravelly and thick when he did. "No need. Unless you plan to spend half the night doing laundry."

She felt the spirit of Blackbeard descend. "No, mate. I plan to spend all night doing you."

He didn't think he'd ever hurt in his life the way he was hurting now. A wrong move of his torso left his ribs protesting. A wrong move elsewhere and tape pulled, scabs tore, bruises ached as if they were as blue as his balls. Not to mention his cock, which he swore was about to split its skin. And the woman expected him to keep pace with her all night.

Good thing it took more than pain to keep him down. He crawled up over her, loving the way she tried not to shiver but couldn't stop the aftershocks. She giggled, a nervous, manic twitter.

He wanted to laugh because she tickled him so, but he didn't. Laughing hurt, and the reminder of his condition pissed him off. She had the most amazing tits and he couldn't even straddle her chest and fuck them.

Instead, he rolled onto his back and patted his abs. "Get up here and ride me like a pony."

She turned to her side, propped herself up on her elbow, reached down and wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock. "I take it back. You deserved to be treated in the large animal suite. You are hung like no pony I know."

He grew what felt like another three inches. And then he growled, "Do I need to remind you of the fact that I'm not a very nice man?"

"You don't scare me, Mick Savin." She said it, and then she was the one hovering above him, the one crawling around the bed on her hands and knees with her gorgeous ass in the air. "You or your big bad gun. In fact"—she was kneeling between his legs now, her hands underneath his thighs, pushing up—"I think you're the nicest man I know."

She leaned forward, flicked her tongue over the head of his cock. He thrust upward, filled her mouth. It was like she'd taken lessons, the way she sucked him, the way she knew where he wanted her thumb as she held him, where he wanted her