Page 69 of Real Dirty
Lowering my head to bring my lips an inch away from her temple, I tell her, “As sexy as you look right now, wearing nothing but my T-shirt and making one of my favorite foods, you need to get out of the kitchen and off that ankle.”
Her breath ghosts across my skin, which doesn’t help my hard-on.
“I’ve been sitting while they fry.” She jerks her head toward the bar stool behind her.
I pick her up and put her on the stool. “I’ll finish them.”
She lifts her head, and I can’t resist leaning forward to close my teeth over her perfect bottom lip and tug. Ripley freezes. I release her, but my tongue darts out to taste where I nipped.
“You’re so fucking sexy. You taste like you’ve already gotten into the donuts,” I tell her, not wanting to back away yet. “I want you, Ripley. Really fucking bad. If you’d still been in my bed when I woke up, you’d have my cock buried inside you right now, and I’d be making you scream.”
Her breathing quickens, and I lift my hand to trail it along the skin of her leg, inching the shirt up as I go higher.
“You like that?”
Her nod barely registers as a movement.
“If I reach between these gorgeous legs, am I gonna find a wet pussy?”
She doesn’t answer, instead swallows audibly.
“No answer? I guess I’m gonna have to find out for myself.”
I curve my hand around the top of her lusciousnakedass, squeezing a handful and releasing a groan. “Do you have any idea how sexy it is that you’re never wearing any panties?Jesus.”
“I ...”
Whatever she’s going to say trails off when I slide a hand between her thighs and cup her hot, wet center.
“Sweet fucking Christ, woman.” I push the tips of two fingers inside, and Ripley arches toward me.
“Screw the donuts. This can’t wait.”
40
Ripley
Oh. My. God.
Boone’s fingering me in his kitchen—and it’s amazing.
My hips jerk, seeking more contact, deeper, harder, faster. I don’t care what he does, but I need him to do more of it.
“Please,” I whisper, even though I hate to beg.
“You could ask me for anything right now, and I’d give it to you.” His voice is deep and gravelly, and my nipples peak against the T-shirt.
“I need ... more.”
Boone’s blue eyes search my face. “Sugar, I’m gonna give you everything.”
He pulls his fingers away and palms my ass with both hands, lifting me off the bar stool. He carries me to the huge farmhouse-style table six feet from the kitchen, and sets me on the cool wood.
“This is the kind of breakfast I could get used to.” He lowers his head, closes his mouth around the hard bud through the cotton, and sucks.
Electricity pulses and shoots through my body, lighting up my senses, my injured ankle all but forgotten.
With his other hand, Boone shoves the T-shirt up and slides a finger inside me.
