Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 39

Thirty-Nine

Tiff

I’m not good enough of a man to resist you.

I shift closer, pressing our bodies together and the hard jut of his erection sets my insides on fire. “I don’t need you to be anything but yourself.”

His eyes flare, but he doesn’t move his hand, doesn’t tear his gaze from mine, doesn’t step back. “We don’t have to do this now.”

“I want to do this.”

“I won’t ask again,” he warns, the hand on my breast convulsing, hips jutting forward.

I moan softly. The hard ridge of him feels good, reminds me of the times I’ve ridden him, the pleasure it’s brought me, he’s brought me, even with far too many layers of clothes between us. “Yes, you will.”

“Baby—”

“You will,” I say. “And my answer will still be yes, honey. Because I want this and I want you, and I know you’ll make it beautiful.”

A shudder slides through his frame.

But then he’s moving, scooping me up, carrying me to the bed.

I gasp as I flop down onto the mattress, but I don’t even bounce twice before he’s coming over the top of me, his lips hitting mine, his leg coming between mine.

“Christ, baby,” he mutters, trailing his hand along my side, dragging up my skirt. His eyes are hot when they lock onto mine. “ That’s a pair of panties.”

“Because there’s hardly any fabric to them?”

He grins, finger tracing the narrow strip of fabric that forms the waistband of the G-string. “Yup.”

I laugh…at least until his finger keeps moving.

Because then I’m moaning as he strokes along the seam of my thigh, shivering, my legs spreading of their own accord, something I know he likes because his grin widens and his eyes fill with heat.

With need.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, that finger still moving, nudging the lacy material of my underwear to the side. “Plump lips. So damned wet.” He swipes through the liquid evidence of my desire, lifts it to his mouth and sucks. “So fucking sweet,” he rasps.

“Jean-Mi,” I groan.

“I’m going to make you come, buttercup,” he says, “and then you’re going to spread wide and take me.”

“Orders,” I manage to push out, even though my lungs are working in rapid succession, even though nerves and need, pleasure and anticipation are winding through me.

“You like them.”

I do.

Almost as much as I like the way he drags down my panties, tossing them to the side.

But he doesn’t dive between my thighs as I half expect—or maybe, half hope.

Instead, he comes back over the top of me, reaching for the straps of my lingerie, dragging one of them down my shoulder, then the other, trapping my arms against my sides.

“Jean-Mi.”

A glimmer of wicked weaving through his eyes.

“Need something, baby?” he murmurs, that finger tracing again—over the tops of my breasts, down into the deep V again. It trails over the material, dragging the lace across my nipples.

I gasp. “Yes.”

“What do you need?” He tugs at the top, and my breasts pop free.

“That. I need that,” I groan as he cups me, massaging my flesh, rolling my nipples, dropping his head forward so his mouth can join in on the action. And paired with the bristles of his beard, I endure the sexiest assault on my senses—warm and wet, firm and confident, rough and needy.

Another tug has the material of my lingerie sliding down, catching on my hips.

His mouth follows that path—light kisses, silken grazes of his tongue, roughened fingertips teasing and?—

“ Oh! ”

Touching .

Lips on my waist, my hips, my…pussy.

I groan as I drop my head back, legs falling open, giving him full access as he yanks the lacy material free. It’s not scary or embarrassing. It’s comfortable. It’s desperate. It’s needy?—

And he gives .

Working me with his mouth and fingers, bringing me up to the edge and then sending me toppling over the other side.

It’s great.

It’s always great.

But it’s also not nearly enough.

So when I can move again, I reach for the hem of his shirt, and he meets me halfway, yanking it over his head, tossing it to the side. And when I flick open the button on his pants, he doesn’t stop me. He helps me—undoing the zipper, pushing the fabric down, dragging it off his legs.

He snags his wallet before he tosses his pants in the direction of his shirt, opening it and pulling out a condom.

His eyes come to mine, and I see the question in them before he asks.

I touch his cheek. “I’m sure.”

“I love you.”

My heart fills to bursting, and I lean up, pressing my lips to his. “I love you, too.”

His touch is gentle but sure as he nudges me back onto the pillows, as he takes his time coaxing me back up to the edge of orgasm. It’s the stuff of my fantasies, those gentle caresses and soft lips, the unhurried movements. But it’s better because I’m not just lying here, stuck in my head, dreaming about something that lives only in my fantasies.

I’m here with Jean-Michel.

I get to touch his body, stroke my hands over his broad shoulders, down his strong back.

I get to push at the waistband of his underwear, drag my nails over his taut behind.

I get to feel the velvet steel of his erection, get to wrap my fingers around him and stroke as he touches me between my thighs again.

Only, my strokes don’t stay steady.

They get jerky and lose rhythm.

Mostly because he’s driven me to the razor’s edge again.

And that’s when he reaches for the condom, tearing it open, rolling it down the hard length of his erection.

His eyes come to mine.

“I’m sure,” I say again.

“Smart,” he murmurs, coming over the top of me. “Sweet.” Sliding between my legs. “Kind.” Notching himself at my entrance. “Funny.” Pushing in, oh so gently. “Beautiful,” he finishes on a slow, even stroke that sends him bottoming out inside of me.

“Jean-Mi,” I moan, shifting against the intrusion of him, the size of him, the heat and hardness of him.

I’ve made friends with my vibrator.

I’ve come with it inside me.

But it never felt like this .

So full. So complete. So much more than anything I’ve ever experienced.

And then he starts moving—slow and careful at first, and then when he finds an angle that has me gasping, arching against him, he moves faster, more deliberately.

“Oh, God,” I moan, legs tightening around him.

“Yeah, baby,” he groans, “rock against me. Find what feels good.”

It’s an order.

But one I love, one that feels incredible as I meet his thrusts, as I experiment with what feels good, as?—

“ Oh!” I gasp.

“Good, baby,” he grits out, sweat beading on his forehead. “Keep going.”

“Are you?—”

“ Don’t stop,” he growls. “I want to you to come again, baby. I want your pretty little pussy to squeeze my cock hard. I want to feel you come apart on my dick. I want?—”

It’s there.

Right there.

But just barely out of reach.

“I can’t.” I grind against him, head thrashing on the pillow, words desperate. “I don’t know?—”

He pumps harder, faster, and he does it reaching between us, finding my clit, rubbing it hard.

Oh. That’s what I need.

I moan, arching against him, seeking out the purchase of his fingers, the strength of his body, the hardness of his cock.

And then…

It happens.

My pleasure winds tight that final inch.

And then explodes outward, burning through me with such intensity it seems as though I might not survive the glorious pleasure of it.

But I do.

And then I get to see something even better.

I get to watch Jean-Michel come apart too.