Page 26 of True Ruin

The other night was incredible.

Touch me here.

Dallas.

It hit him hard, hearing his name whispered in that sexy Southern drawl. Then came flashes of the choral room interspersed with memories of their flaming ’80s kiss, adolescent infatuation and reality colliding until his brain buzzed. With all that going on, could he help it if, within two minutes, he’d drawn her skirt to her hip and run his finger along the cleft of her damp silk panties? If her nipple went rigid beneath his thumb, harder still when he pinched it gently between his fingers, her groan sliding from her lips into his mouth?

He had his finger hooked in her thong, pulling it aside, when she broke the kiss.

Gabi grabbed his hand and dragged him across the kitchen toward a couch he avoided because lumpy didn’t begin to describe it. He limped after her as best he could, knowing his ankle was going to give him shit tomorrow, but he was along for this ride no matter where it took him. No conversation. He hoped she knew men in this deep were goners. Lost to lust. Mindless.

In point of fact, his vision had tunneled until he could only see her.

He was trying to work out how he could do this—go down on her, or maybe more—with a bum foot. “Sparkle, I might need the bed or something higher.”

She glanced over her shoulder with the naughtiest smile he’d ever seen, her eyes golden glints in the shadows. Stopping, she gave him a push, easy but with meaning, that had him falling back on the couch.

Then she knelt between his legs, setting off charges in his brain. “Lie back,” she whispered, reaching for his button fly. “Let me.”

Let me.

“Gabi,” he ground out, circling her slim wrist with his fingers. “I won’t last long if you do this.”

She laughed, trailing her knuckle over the crown of his straining-to-be-free cock. “Isn’t that the point?”

Releasing her arm, he hummed a reply that was absolutely no argument.

WithLover Manplaying in the background, Dallas slumped back as she unfastened his jeans, fit his cock through the gap in his boxers, and began to stroke. Really slowly, her attention centered on him in a way he didn’t think it ever had been before. The scent of her, something floral and devastating, circled him like a hawk.

“Bakers have great hands,” she claimed mid-caress, a guarantee that almost made him come then and there.

It was glorious torture, the way she provoked him, leading up to her lips closing around him, which he guessed she was planning to do. Tracing the lines of the tattoo on his hipbone, nipping it with her teeth, then licking a line along the crease of his thigh to,hell, soothe him? Getting close but not giving him everything.

And the moves weren’t practiced, he realized. They came from pure attraction.

She rocked back on her heels, hand wrapped around his shaft, licking her lips as she stared. He hoped his size, something he’d been told was substantial, wasn’t scaring her.

“Tell it slant,” she murmured, reading the line of text he’d had tattooed on his skin during a chaotic night in Berlin five years ago.

“Emily Dickinson,” he returned, struggling through his dimming consciousness, when all he wanted was to capture the image: Gabi’s hair curling around her face, the ash-blond strands disheveled from the heat of the kiss, the straps of her dress hanging down her arms, her neckline gaping enough to reveal the tops of her gorgeous breasts. Her thumb swept out to gather the drop of moisture from his crown, and the groan he let slide free was not something he could have contained if his life depended on silence.

Nor was the lift of his hips. He was powerless.

“I’m going to taste you,” she promised, and his head dropped back in consent.

Please, he might have even uttered.

He wanted to watch. But it was better he simplyfelt, because he was close already. The fearless stroke of her tongue along his length, experimental advances, her touch not graceful but tenacious. Her hair draped over him, the silken ends dusting his thighs. Sucking hard one moment, softer the next. Deeply, until the tip touched the back of her throat.

And the pauses, the fuckingpauses.

She brought him to the brink twice, the tingle at the base of his spine signaling a pending orgasm, before he gasped, “Wilder. You’re killing me.”

“Also the point,” she whispered, the vibration of her words sending tremors to his toes, out through his fingertips.

He looked then, and her eyes met his as she slid down his shaft, her tongue doing this incredible dance along the underside of his cock.

Abruptly, the kitchen phone rang, because apparently the universe had no respect for a man on the edge.