Page 86 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

Monet shook her head. “Don’t you dare.”

“Fair enough.” His fingers journeyed her leg until, with a quick shift of his arm, her knee was draped over the crook of his elbow. “Ready?”

Monet smiled, even as her heart beat faster in her chest. “You better believe it, cowboy.”

He tsked. “Stockman, love. Stockman.”

And he thrust into her.

One long, fierce, deep thrust that stretched Monet to her limit and filled her head with glorious swirls of color.

“You’re so tight, Monnie.” His voice was strained. His eyes burned, his stare holding hers. “So tight.”

Monet wanted to say something back but couldn’t. The pleasure of his cock slowly withdrawing from her gripping pussy wouldn’t let her. Instead, she clung to him, one leg pulled high to her shoulder, the other stretched beside Dylan’s as—just as slowly—he sank back into her sex. Deeper and deeper until the root of his shaft kissed her clit.

“So fucking tight,” he murmured. “And so fucking perfect.”

He withdrew again, until she could feel the distended head of his cock spread her folds before, with a thrust more powerful than its predecessors, he drove back into her heat once more.

And again.

And again.

With every thrust, Dylan’s speed grew. With every penetration, Monet’s pleasure mounted. With every steady withdraw, with every punching stroke, her body grew hotter. Hotter. When his lips captured hers, when the brim of his hat bumped her forehead, it was all she could do to hold on and ride the pleasure swelling inside her. He kissed her, demanding and dominating, and she moaned into his mouth and gave him everything he wanted. Gave him her mouth, her tongue, her cunt.

Kissed him, fucked him. Squeezed her sex around his cock, gripping it with her inner walls as he slammed into her, his speed increasing. Growing faster. Faster. Sending shards of liquid electricity into her soul with every dragging stroke against her clit.

“Christ, Monet,” he moaned into her mouth, “not much longer. Not much…”

He slammed into her again. Harder. Harder.

A fuzzy part of her mind told her he was palming her breast beneath her bra, his fingers pinching her nipple. Another part told her she was scoring the taut flesh on his shoulders with her nails.

And it was the way it was meant to be. It was right. It was exquisite. Except…except…

She broke the kiss, Dylan’s groan of protest feeding the building tension in her sex. “Dylan,” she rasped, fisting a handful of his hair. “I’m going to come. I’m going to come and I want?—”

He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “To see my face when you do,” he finished, the words a breathless growl. “Come for me, Monnie.” He slammed into her, jaw bunched. “Come for me now. Before I can’t?—”

She came. A paroxysm of pleasure so intense, so complete, she barely had time to register the fact Dylan’s hat was still on his head before she was lost to her release, his name bursting from her lips ashername roared past his, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as his rhythm failed him and he pumped into her sex. Filling her. Filling the condom.

And as her climax peaked, it dawned on her he hadn’t even come close to embarrassing himself.

She wondered exactly how many more condoms he had in his luggage.

Chapter10

“Why Black Friday?”

Monet lifted her head from where it lay resting on her crossed arms, opening her eyes to look at Dylan. He was sitting on the bed beside her, his back against the headboard as he cast his attention over the openNew York Timesin his hands.

He looked so perfect there on her bed—finally on her bed, not the sofa—his golden-brown chest calling to be touched, his long, lean legs stretched out before him on top of the sheets. His black boxers—which he’d slipped on to retrieve the morning paper from Monet’s door fifteen minutes ago—highlighted the deep tan the Australian sun had given him, a sight Monet found very appealing indeed. If she wasn’t so damn comfortable stretched out on her belly, his body heat seeping into her side, his distinctly masculine scent threading through every breath she pulled, she’d climb from the bed, find her closest sketchbook and capture his gorgeousness on paper.

But shewascomfortable. Damn comfortable. And her closest sketchbook was at least a good fifteen feet away out in her studio.

“We have a Black Friday in Australia,” Dylan went on, “but it’s named after a bush fire that destroyed whole towns.” He cast her a quick sideways look around the edge of theTimes. “I’m guessin’ your Black Friday has nothing to do with fire?”

Monet shifted on the bed until she lay on her side, resting her head on her hand as she smiled at him. “No. It was originally called Black Friday because the number of people who went out shopping in Philadelphia after Thanksgiving made the streets and sidewalks hell. Somewhere around the eighties, people started referring to it that way because supposedly the retails stores turned a profit after that day.”