7

PICK

Pick kisses his way down my body, a hotshot on a mission. God, I could watch him for hours—and not just because he’s sporting a most impressive erection. His new position—going down on me, be still my quivering hooha—lets me appreciate the downright enormous ridge beneath his jeans as he drops lower. It’s my good fortune that the man’s built to scale. The hard length presses first against my belly, my thigh, then is gone all together. Well crap. Now that he’s let go, I try to steer him with my hands, wanting his face back within kissing distance, but he gently brushes me away.

“Let me make this good,” he says. I’m dying, and he’s laughing.

“It’s your job to put out fires,” I point out, sounding downright freaking virtuous. “Chop chop.”

He outright laughs this time. God, I love that raspy sound, half amusement, half growl. “You got to trust me.”

“Now,” I demand, because this is my carpe diem moment and he’s withholding orgasms, but there’s no hurrying Pick up. He’s as methodical and thorough about this as he is about fighting fire.

While he explores the soft curve of my belly—God, I should have bothered more with sit-ups—his hands discover my breasts and rub over the cotton T-shirt, thumbing my nipples in a deliciously rough caress. You think he could take a hint from the words embroidered over my boobs, but maybe reading isn’t on his mind right now. Torturing me is. The best, most delicious, sinfully erotic torture mankind ever devised. He teases and pinches, rubs and pulls, until my nipples seem to have a one-way connection to my clit, and everything in me is pulling tighter and tighter in the best possible way.

And he’s in absolutely no hurry at all, damn him. He devours me, like I’m the tastiest dish on today’s menu. As if he’s starving—for me. He strips off my shirt, licking, kissing, and nipping his way from one boob to the other. He likes what he sees, and he loves what he’s doing, and me? I just melt in his big, capable hands.

Then finally, finally he’s moving all the way down, his head dipping lower as his broad shoulders pushed my thighs apart. For a moment, I stiffen, not quite certain how far I really want to take this, but he pushes gently and I give, leaning up on my elbows, watching him. He’s freaking amazing, so screw resistance, self-control, or discipline. I’m going to eat him up like he’s the biggest, baddest, most sinful piece of cake ever.

I think he’s in full agreement with me, too. He eases the skirt up over my knees and thighs until the fabric pools on my stomach.

“Watch,” he orders.

He didn’t just say that, did he? I just want to come, not reenact Fifty Shades of Grey. I don’t like orders or not feeling in control. But then he blows lightly, sending shivers through me. Okay, so now isn’t the time to bring up my issues.

He doesn’t wait for me to agree or disagree, just runs a thumb over my thong. The feel of that light touch drives me crazy. Makes me groan. I didn’t plan this, I swear, not until I spotted the car driving up, and even then I was running on instinct and relief. I just wanted to grab everything I could before time ran out and my life was game over. Thank God my panties are good ones, a sea foam kind of color, the edges trimmed with lace and a perky white bow. He’s staring at them like I’ve got the Sistine Chapel wrapped around my hooha. His eyes darken and his breath catches.

“Pretty,” he groans. “You know how badly I want to get underneath those panties, Sarah Jo?”

“Tell me.” That’s my voice that sounds so breathless and out of control. I’d do anything if he’d just keep touching me.

He does. I don’t know if he’s a mind reader, or just as desperate as I am. He drags his thumb down the very center of my panties and I moan.

“The whole fucking mountain could go up in flames right now, and I’d still be right here.” He slides his hands under my butt, lifting me toward his mouth.

I squirm because we’ve got a few logistical issues here. He hasn’t taken the panties off. His fingers cup and curl, teasing and stroking. And yet my panties stay firmly put. I’m giftwrapped for him, and all he’s doing is shaking the package because he knows what’s inside—and is going to make me wait. Damn him.

“What are you doing?” I ask the stupid question because, hello, I need an answer now.

“Wait and see.” He flashes me a grin, the bastard. “If you still have questions in a minute, I’m not doing this right.”

His hands didn’t stop lifting, either. Guess that’s my first clue. I could try wriggling out of them myself but this isn’t the most secure position in the world. He touches me, and I moan again. He leans closer, his shoulders pressing my thighs apart as his mouth skims over my panty-clad center. I want him to lick me. To tongue me hard, to shove his face down, and make me forget about everything bad in the world. He could do it, too.

I’ve never felt like this. No man has ever made me want to have sex so badly. I’ve never been this desperate for an orgasm. And then his mouth… God… his mouth is right there. Pressed against the center of my panties. He’s every bit as good—or as bad—as he’s been promising because I go up in flames. I pull him closer, pleading for more. Or everything. Anything. My reward is a small, secret kiss I feel deep in my core. He has his palms wrapped around my butt cheeks, his fingertips tickling the crease between them and when he inhales, he has to smell me. Instead of being embarrassed, though, I’m aroused.

“Open up more,” he growls.

Bossy, isn’t he? I hesitate just a moment, thighs tensing against his shoulders before I give up and give in. I open my legs wide. He immediately rewards me for that obedience, moving higher, his fingers curling into the hot, salty spot where my thighs meet.

“Farther,” he coaxes, nudging me. Anything. I’ll do anything to keep him right there. Never mind that I can feel the cool surface of the metal desk beneath my butt and there’s a ridge of fabric jammed at the base of my spine. It would have been smarter to jump him at a Four Seasons, but we’re here now, and I’ll kill him if he doesn’t finish what I started.

“Did you lock the door?” Yes. I have to ask, even if I kind of hope he ignores my question. Or just tells me that yes, of course he did, and he’s got a tank or something equally impenetrable (har) blocking the entrance to our impromptu love nest. Lies. Truth. All I want is plausible deniability and the green light to go ahead. This is the best worst idea ever, and I totally blame his hot physique and that unexpected flash of caring. How was I supposed to resist?

Unfortunately, he lifts his head. An inch. Crap. “Do you care?”

That’s not a yes. In fact, I could probably infer it’s a fuck no because you didn’t give me a chance, babe. The problem is that I can feel each one of those three words on my skin. His breath brushes over me in a dirty, wicked tease. Do I care? Yes, I decide reluctantly. I do. Despite the fire camp baking outside in the summer heat, the air in the cabin feels shockingly cool on my bare skin. Which is bare because my skirt is hiked up to my waist and I’m using Pick’s shoulders as my own personal footrest. I lift my hands. Set them down. Consider crossing them over my boobs. Why is casual hook up sex so goddamned awkward?

He takes pity on me. “No one’s coming through that door. You can relax.”

Right. Because stopping and having a conversation in the middle of hot, impulse sex-on-a-desk is so relaxing making. He must correctly interpret the look on my face, because he lowers his head and hooks my waistband, his thumbs drawing my panties down. The fabric teases me where I’m slick and swollen, pulling over my swollen flesh. He doesn’t take them off, though, just leaves them tucked below my mound like now that he can reach what he wants, nothing else matters.

Thank God. We’re done passing the appetizers around, and now we’re going for the main course. I expect him to hop up, grab a condom, and get down to it, but instead he swipes his tongue over me. Oh. FREAKING. Yes. I suddenly understand why the hotshot team is sort of legendary all over town. If his teammates are anywhere near as talented, it’s amazing anyone ever lets them out of bed.

Sensation bursts through me, pleasure following each sure lick. No more thinking. No more worrying. I fall back—forgetting all about my metal bed—grab his head with my hands, and turn him into my own personal steering wheel. Left, a little more to the right, and then right. Fucking. There. I yank him closer and let him hear my appreciation of his insane oral skills.

Once again, Pick proves he isn’t a man in a rush. Again and again, he kisses me while I bump and grind, riding his amazingly talented face to the best of my abilities. He’s admirably thorough too. He swirls his tongue around the top of my girl bits, drawing torturous circles around my clit before making the trip back down like he has all the time in the world and it’s no rush, nowhere to be but here as the sweet, slow ache builds in me.

At some point, he’s set me down on the desk because now he’s got two hands at his disposal and God, can he use them. He slides his thumbs up, loving the hell out of my pussy. When he presses inside me with one callused finger, I see stars. And then I do some more groaning and demanding because why settle for looking at the Big Dipper when you could have the entire galaxy? I try to explain that to him, but my mouth seems incapable of anything more than babble and throaty moans. I run my hands all over him, touching each inch that I can, feeling up his arms, his shoulders, the top of his head. More Pick, please.

And he gives it to me. “Let go. Lean on me a little. No worries, honey.”

It’s rather obvious that I have worries, an entire tanker truck load of them, but I try to let it all go. His finger pushing back inside me again helps a whole lot with my attempt, because God bless the man, he finds my G-spot like he’s got his own personal map of my body with a big X marking all my favorite, dirty spots. I come so fast that I surprise myself, grinding hard against his mouth and moaning his name.

Yeah. I just did that. I grabbed a guy, dragged him into some kind of storage shed, and proceeded to use him as my own personal dildo. It sounds kind of bad when I think about it like that. Whatever else he is, Pick’s a decent guy, and he deserves more than being my police evasion tool. Like a matching his-and-her orgasm. He totally deserves that.

It takes me a moment to come down from cloud nine or wherever it is that Pick’s magic tongue has catapulted me to. I’m sort of hanging onto his head, alternating between patting it and pulling on it. Hopefully, I haven’t snatched him bald, but he’s certainly to blame. He made me see stars, and he made me lose control. Any resulting bald patch is just the price of entry.

And… he’s watching me. I mean, that’s better than having him stare at my post-orgasm cooter, but it’s a little unnerving. I’ve spent most of my time recently doing my best to hide in plain sight, and rule number one of hiding is don’t attract attention. I should say thank you. Or praise his mad oral skills. Something. Anything. Instead I blurt out one word.

“What?”

Awesome. I could have gone with that one. Or fantastic. Mind-blowing. Even without the thesaurus app on my phone, I have to be able to come up with a dozen more flattering words to hit him with. He doesn’t look offended, though. He just keeps on staring, although his hands drift lower, running over my inner thighs and making little shivers run up and down my back. It’s both relaxing and arousing at the same time, which explains why my eyes start drifting shut. After the monumental orgasm I’ve just had, a nap sounds perfect. I know I should move, should return the favor, but he’s reduced me to this boneless pile of limp.

“You don’t like being told what to do.” He slips the casual observation in, like he’s telling me something I don’t know.

I force my eyes open and attempt to multi-task, wriggling back enough to sit up and slam my shameless thighs shut. My inner hussy has been exposed enough for today, thank you very much.

“Why would I?” I’m sure he’s not a fan of order-taking, if we’re swapping secrets here, so why should I like it any more than he does?

He laughs, rocking back on his heels. Yes, I shoot a look at his crotch, trying to check out the goods. As far as I can tell, he’s abnormally blessed in the downtown department. Super shlong, packing, hung. “Sometimes, taking orders can be fun.”

I’m about to ask him for an example because I still have my doubts that he’s ever taken orders and enjoyed it, but the dinner bell rings outside and someone hollers my name. Real life is about to come a-knock-knocking on the door.

“I need to go.” Wham, bam, and thank you sir, but we’re done here. In reality, after hiding in plain sight for so long, I’m feeling a touch too exposed now that he’s been eye-to-hooha with me. A little strategic retreat is in order

“Gotcha.” He pushes to his feet, the masculine grace and raw power of that big body kicking my senses into overdrive again. Or maybe I’m just disappointed that I’m going to have to make do with appetizers and not the main course after all because so much for having sexcapades. “Looks like I have a date with dinner after all.”

“We’re not dating.” It’s hard to sound dignified and in control when he gives me a hand off the desk and stands me up. Plus, I’m still super wet from his attentions, and there’s an embarrassing noise I can’t and won’t place. At least I don’t have sperm running down my legs, right? I try to lunge for the door, but my panties are still down around my thighs, and the sudden movement throws me off balance. Rather than face plant, I catch myself on his shoulders before I even realize what I’m doing. I’m grace incarnate and so not-sexy. Oh well, right? He adjusts my panties matter-of-factly, but then he squeezes my ass gently and points me toward the door. I think…

I have no freaking idea what to think.

“Whatever you say, honey.”