Page 529 of Summer Heat
A quiet, mildly profane curse stained the air, and suddenly, Lance moved, capturing her by her waist, turning so he could settle her in his lap, her legs straddling the fierce, pulsing heat of his arousal.
“Tamara,” he said, moving his hands over her back. His breath grazed her nipples and she shuddered violently against him, pressing the ache between her legs against the ache between his. “You’re so beautiful and warm.”
His voice, gravelly with need, slayed her. She kissed his head, and touched his ears. And Lance, beautiful, skilled and wild, opened his mouth and suckled her breast.
She would die of the pleasure. It was fierce and bright and almost painfully erotic to be with him like this, his thick hair under her fingers, his beautiful mouth skillfully nibbling and nudging and suckling, as if it were the finest thing he could imagine to taste, as if he could do it all night, as if there was nothing, nothing he would rather do than lavish that minute, perfect attention upon her breasts. Upon every inch of the longing flesh, the aching tips.
All night. She rocked restlessly against him and heard him make a deep, yearning sound. Against her, he moved his hips. She clutched his shoulders fiercely, wanting it to never end, to never cease.
A wild pulse pounded through her veins, rocketing from her breasts to her groin, jolting higher and higher with every touch of his mouth or hands, and the lost, rough, pleased, sounds he made. Her body trembled deeply and she found her hands moving restlessly over him, into his hair, over his shoulders, on his arms. He moved beneath her, his hips creating a relentless, rocking pressure.
With a shock, she realized she was very close to orgasm. With a cry, she froze, but at that instant, he caught her flesh lightly between her teeth, and grasped her buttocks tightly in his hands. She made a soft whimpering noise, unable to stop the rising crescendo, not when he touched her like this, when he rocked against her like that, not when—
“Let it go,” he said in a raw voice. “Please, let go, Tamara. Let me feel you come apart.”
With a sob of release and mind-shattering pleasure, she did. She let him thrust against her, his fingers tight on her buttocks, his mouth slowing as if he knew. And when the spasm slowed, he pulled her close and held her, kissing her shoulder, stroking her back, his own need still raging and fierce against her slowing body. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his neck. “I didn’t—”
He grabbed her head and kissed her into silence, his mouth as sweet and deep as a stream. “Never apologize, ever. It pleases me to please you.”
“But—”
The sudden sound of glass breaking crashed into the still night. Tamara and Lance froze. A flurry of shouts could be heard.
“Damn,” Lance said, moving quickly. “Get down.”
Flung aside, Tamara crouched on the floor of the car, hearing the brutal sound of a fight spilling very close. Lance urgently started the car and backed out just as a bottle crashed into the side window. “Sorry, Tamara,” he said, “hang on.”
For a moment, she was too stunned, too awash in the lingering haze of sensual pleasure, to even think. She simply stayed down, crossing her arms over her naked breasts. Lights flashed over the ceiling of the car, over Lance, his hair disheveled, his shirt open down the front. She was riveted by the sight of him, driving wildly, a frown on his face.
The car came to a stop. Lance glanced down at her, and a wicked grin broke on his face. “Traffic light,” he explained and grabbed her hand. Devilment sparked in his eyes as he leaned the slightest bit to brush his fingers over her breast. “This is a high-water mark for me, erotically speaking,” he said with a slow grin. “How about you?”
Tamara ducked her head as the reality of the situation crashed in on her. “I’m mortified!”
He fell sideways. “Kiss me and you’ll forget about it.” Without waiting for her, he kissed her, his tongue sliding inside wickedly.
A horn honked, and Lance popped up again, chuckling softly. “It’s only for another minute or two. Hold on.”
The laugh tipped her off. She raised her head. “You’re enjoyi
ng this!”
“Hell, yes!” He glanced at her, eyes glittering. “A gorgeous, passionate, half-naked woman in my car? What do you think?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m embarrassed!”
Again his rich laugher filled the car, a heady sound that made Tamara wish she could enjoy it as much as he did, that she could overcome her sense of shame long enough to let down her guard.
“Here,” he said, and braced himself to shuck his shirt. “I’ll be half-naked. You be covered.”
Gratefully, Tamara grabbed the shirt and put it on. “It isn’t the same,” she said.
But it was. There he was, naked to the waist, all that supple golden skin gleaming in the streetlights, his chest glittering with palest gold hair. He shoved a hand through his unruly hair, and impossibly, Tamara’s stomach flipped again.
When he pulled out of the intersection, Tamara jumped up into the seat, trying covertly to fasten the buttons with her unsteady hands. The scent of his skin wafted out of the cloth, and the fabric felt like his hands on her. And she discovered, to her chagrin, that she had torn one of the buttons in her haste to touch him. The shirt gaped open in the middle, and Tamara tugged it closed, furious embarrassment flooding her like molten lead, burning away every second of pleasure she had known with him.
The litany of her sins spilled through her with painful humiliation: necking in a car like a teenager, riding through town half-naked, tearing his shirt like some wild woman—and worst of all, coming apart like that when he touched her.
Faintly, she was aware of him next to her, aware of his body and his scent and the unfulfilled need that still hung between them. But she couldn’t look at him—she was too desperately embarrassed.
