Page 20

chapter

ten

Zombie – The Cranberries

CAMPBELL

“Too fast, Hellcat.” He dropped his brow to hers, huffing a fast breath against her face. “Me, not you.”

She didn’t understand.

Tugging damp cotton from his chest, he wanted to admit he’d lost control, that it would definitely start off better next time. When he could think clearly. When he would be sure to do everything he knew women liked—the usual moves, none of which included being screwed on a cold kitchen counter.

This wildness, this animalistic greed , wasn’t what he’d planned.

Because he hadn’t encountered anything close to it in his life.

Why was she the one to do this to him? Threadbare pants and floppy sweatshirts had never been a turn-on before. Bedraggled ponytails and scuffed sneakers. A tomboy.

“I haven’t even seen you naked yet,” he whispered.

Campbell cursed and ducked his head, heat creeping up his neck. Goddamn blushes and a loose mouth. What the hell was the matter with him? “Fontana, I?—”

Her sweatshirt fluttered to the floor. Her serviceable, white bra.

With a jiggle and a cheeky little shift, her ragged jeans and panties followed.

She grinned—slow, knowing—like she got it, like she understood exactly what she was doing to him.

His heart kicked back to life, hard and heavy.

Tearing his gaze from the pile of clothing, he worked his way up, dusting every inch of her.

Oh, he was fucking done .

She was every man’s dream.

She was certainly his .

Her skin glowed, kissed with a rosy, dewy flush.

Long legs, a lean torso sculpted with muscle, her physical work had done wonders, and he meant wonders , for her figure.

When his gaze reached her breasts, he exhaled sharply, surprise stealing through him.

Round and high, they were beautiful. Not large, not small… just perfect.

But her nipples, fuck , they nearly knocked him off his feet. Pressing his knees into the cabinets, he sucked in a breath. They were the exact color of a blazing sunset he’d captured on film last year off the coast of Thailand.

And peaked more than any he’d ever seen.

Dazzled, he circled one and palmed the other, watched them tighten and distend even further. Sliding into her warm embrace, he said with the reverence of a prayer, “You are stunning.”

“I hate them,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“You hate these ?” Cupping her breasts, he brushed his knuckles over the hardened tips, disbelieving.

Embarrassed, she lowered her head, stray strands of hair curling at her temple. “I have to wear thicker bras to keep them from poking through everything.” A shiver rippled through her at his continued attention. “I think they’re ugly. ”

Campbell released an astonished half-laugh. She was insane .

He’d show her how gorgeous she was—or die trying.

Smiling, he blew a staggered breath across one, and Fontana shuddered, a low moan catching in her throat.

She might not like them, but she loved their responsiveness.

He drew one tight nub into his mouth, circling it with his tongue, savoring the way her body reacted.

He lengthened painfully inside his jeans, and though he enjoyed the hell out of foreplay, truly began to wonder how much more of this he could take before he came in his pants.

Sweeping her into his arms, her legs locking around him, his lips fastened over a nipple he could have found blindfolded. Remarkable . Her skin tasted like sunshine, sunsets, summer nights. Pleasure and hope and passion.

Shouldering through the living room archway, he moved cautiously, dodging a pizza box, a wine bottle, a stray glass. She was all over him—teeth, lips, fingers, nails—whispering seductive demands in his ear.

Toeing off his boots, he made it two more steps before she brought him to his knees.

To hell with it . Bedrooms were overrated .

Laying her on the indigo shag rug that stretched the length of the hallway, he spread her legs and settled between them, his body a long, heated press over hers.

Whispering against the rounded curve of her breast, a slow, heated promise of passion, he murmured, “I’m going to make you burn, Hellcat. See if I don’t.”

Responding to his challenge with hunger and bold determination, Fontana tugged his T-shirt over his head and set to exploring, her hands and mouth claiming every inch of bare skin she could reach.

He discovered his nipples were more sensitive than he’d ever imagined and that he had a previously unknown erogenous zone beneath his collarbone.

Then she rolled on top of him, yanked his chest hair with her teeth, and he felt the move all the way to his toes .

No one had ever paid such rapt attention, as if they were mapping his body, memorizing him. Learning what he liked—then turning that knowledge back on him in the most gloriously erotic way.

“Your pants,” she said, biting down just above his navel. In turns, his skin stung and tingled from her spirited ravishment. Leaving him blistered, completely ensnared by her engrossment. “Take them off.”

Kneeling over him, she yanked his belt loose and attacked his fly with careless urgency, each hasty, suggestive push and pull undoing him. All the air in his lungs, and most of the reason in his mind, left him as she kissed every newly exposed inch of skin, leaving him rock hard and yearning.

Closing his eyes, he lifted his hips as she tugged the denim down his legs and off his feet. He let her explore at will—stroking, nibbling, licking her way up—holding himself in check until her touch grew bolder, her movements self-assured, and his breathing turned ragged.

Until her silky hair brushed his scrotum.

If her clever lips found their way to his dick, he would be finished .

“My turn.”

Grasping her wrists, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her arms above her head as he stretched out over her.

Seizing her lovely mouth, he didn’t give her time to talk, demand, or seduce, what she’d been doing since she pulled off the world’s quickest striptease in her quaint blue-and-yellow kitchen.

Still, he lost ground, a mild case of insanity taking hold. Years of skill and control faded in the pure glow of her pleasure— and his.

He realized vulnerability encompassed more than a mere lack of clothing…but he was simply too lost in her to care.

FONTANA

Different.

It. Him .

The kick of temper in his kiss, the savage greed in his touch, the taste of desperation on his tongue.

Campbell had abandoned control, left it far behind, and now his need surged into her in blind, brazen waves.

Back arching, skin slick, lips bruised, her body dissolving beneath determined hands and a mouth that knew exactly how to undo her.

Trying to win—because she knew he wanted to—she clutched his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she arched into his long, lean, willing body.

A tortured groan rolled from her. “Atlanta, now. Now. I give up, okay?”

He lifted his lips from her nipple, a scalding breath washing over the aroused peak as he gasped, “Were we competing?”

She slumped onto the carpet, arms flopping to her sides. “Help me. I’m burning up .”

“I didn’t want to go too fast, to frighten?—”

“Frighten me.”

Guiding his hand between her thighs, she lifted her lids and nailed him with a gaze she prayed looked fierce. And sexy.

“Make me come before I lose my mind and decide I have to kill you. ”

Spiky lashes lowered, obscuring his eyes. The muscles in his arms rippled, twitched. A ragged breath was his only reply. Then, thank you , he delved through her damp curls, intent on ending her torment. Trembling fingers skimmed her seam, lingered, parted, thrust .

At the same time, his thumb found her clit, knowing exactly where, how, why .

The cherry atop the passion cupcake, he kissed her deeply, a tortured moan rumbling in his throat as his hand worked from side to side, each stroke harder, more deliberate.

A passionate fury flared in her stomach, spreading like lava, scorching every inch of her body.

She was weightless, as misty and light as the fog blanketing the fields just beyond her door.

This was much better than doing it herself; Jaime had it right about that.

Lost in a tempest of sensation, she was only vaguely aware of him pulling away—his hand gone, the kiss broken—as he shifted to the side. The sudden loss threw her completely off-kilter, and she met his amused gaze head-on. “You know the distress you’re causing me, don’t you?”

He grinned and held up a shiny square packet. “Safety, ma’am.”

“Well, buckle up for safety.” Hitching up on her elbow, Fontana snatched the condom from him and tore the foil open with her teeth. “Hold it steady, will you?”

He released a sharp gust of laughter but followed orders, shifting his weight and reaching between them. The brush of his knuckles across her pussy sent a hot jolt of longing through her, stalling any immediate plans for revenge.

She needed him too much right now.

But there was always later. She was very good at holding a grudge.

Fontana fisted her hand around his hard length, then stroked—twice—more attention than the task warranted. His lids fluttered, his chest expanding on a measured breath.

She nearly came right there, watching him try to control himself.

“You always take it this slowly during sex, Atlanta?” she asked and gave his balls the gentlest of caresses.

He hesitated, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond her shoulder. “Never,” he finally admitted, his voice barely audible. “I could have made you come before, but I wanted to feel your release— to my depths .”

She had no reply to his raw confession, only the sharp ache of need as she worked his cock into place. She wasn’t gentle, wasn’t particularly skilled, but he seemed to like it.

Before releasing him, she couldn’t resist rubbing his swollen crown in circles around her lips, pulling tortured groans from them both.