Chapter 37
A SMORGASBORD
RIPLEY
It’s a sex toy buffet. “Can I have one of everything?” I ask as I survey the offerings on the coffee table.
“You can have everything,” Banks says, standing by like a proud…
charcuterist creator? Potluck purveyor? Who knows, but the man has outdone himself with his selection of unconventional toys.
I pick up the first one, inspecting it, then dangling the stick with the stuffed fake blue bird at the end. “You stopped by a pet store?”
“Don’t knock it. Those fake feathers look pretty soft,” he says.
I run the baby-blue faux feathers over my palm. “Cats have the right idea,” I say, but there’s one issue. “Though I might feel a little weird using a pet toy in bed.”
“Fair enough.”
I set it down and pick up the next option. A silky pink ribbon, long and curling. “Paid a visit to the craft store?”
“I was a busy boy.”
I rub my fingers against the material, then hum approvingly. “It’s silky,” I say, then drag it over the top of my chest. “Very silky.”
His eyes widen as I demonstrate.
Next, I pick up the synthetic feather duster and run it down my arm. My breath catches. But I frown. “I’m not sure I’m ready to come to terms with getting aroused by a cleaning tool. But I would definitely love to watch you do dishes and fold laundry someday because that sounds unspeakably hot.”
He leans in, cups my cheek, and plants a quick, firm kiss to my lips. “Just wait till you see what I can do with fitted sheets.”
“You can fold fitted sheets?” I ask breathily, my chest already heaving.
“Perfectly,” he says in a husky promise.
I nibble on the corner of my lips. “I’m not sure we need toys then. Knowing that is foreplay enough.”
He grabs my ass, then hauls me against him for a deeper kiss. When he breaks it, he says, “Get on the bed, sweetheart.”
I have a feeling I know which one’s coming. In a flash, I shed my clothes, leaving on my white lace bra and panties.
I settle onto the bed on my back, as he prowls over to me.
He’s wearing jeans and nothing else. My mouth waters at the sight of him—broad chest, thick shoulders, carved abs, and all that ink on his muscular arm.
The symbols of who he is, what he believes in.
As he returns to the table, picking up the ribbon, he regards me with wild heat in his dark eyes.
Passion, too, as he returns to me, his gaze journeying up and down me.
He dangles the pink ribbon over my chest, the soft end of it teasing against my left breast, tickling me. “Still want to skip foreplay?”
The rush of heat shooting down my body makes me a liar as I arch into the ribbon’s touch. “No.”
He stands by the side of the bed, teasing the ribbon down my body, between my breasts, over my belly. It’s soft, and I shudder as he drags it over me, like it’s a feather.
And yes, apparently I’m into flower ticklers, headband bondage, and now ribbon play.
Who knew? Maybe Banks did. Maybe he sensed this about me all along.
I stretch my neck, a sign for him to keep going.
He takes my cue and runs with it, dangling the silky material over me, then coasting the end down my arm.
I’m aching. He’s not even touching me with his body, not his hands, not his mouth, not his cock, and still my skin is tingling, my thighs shaking.
He continues his erotic torture, unfurling the ribbon down my body, over my legs, then back up, along the inside of my thighs. I part my legs for him.
He stares wantonly at my white panties. “You look so fucking beautiful,” he says, and he sounds filthy and adoring.
He drops the ribbon and bends to run his knuckles along the side of my face, tracing my jawline.
Funny how I thought I’d come back to the cottage and demand a spanking, like I wanted the night I met him, but when he showed me the table of toys, I wanted that more.
Because of how he uses whatever sex toys he MacGyvers—he uses them to turn me on. That’s his sole mission—me. And with Banks, I’m learning I don’t have to solve a thing. I get to fix…nothing. I don’t have to think at all, and I like not having a to-do list.
Or perhaps I like that I’m his to-do list.
Banks takes each item on it very seriously, leaning down and starting with tugging down the cup of the bra on my right breast. Giving me a kiss on my nipple. Then sucking.
I draw a sharp breath.
Next, he bites.
I gasp.
He lifts his face, raises an eyebrow. Asking if that was okay.
“Yes,” I murmur.
He rubs his chin against my exposed breast, the stubble from his short beard whisking across my skin. He’s sandpaper to my softness, and the contrast makes me squirm. Makes me want him. I reach for his chest, my fingers playing with the wiry hair on his pecs.
A grunt falls from his lips. He looks up, and in a flash he’s on the bed, straddling me, pinning my wrists down. “You trying to touch me?” he asks, but it’s not aggressive. It’s curious. Playful. Like he always is with me.
“I am,” I admit.
He lifts his chin. “You can touch me when I fuck you.”
I shiver. From ribbons to words. “Now you’re really teasing me.”
He smirks. “I know.”
I exhale into the good feelings, then relax into the bed when he lets go of my wrists, expecting Banks to travel down my body. Instead he moves to the side, lying next to me, kissing my neck. My clavicle. My shoulder.
I shudder, luxuriating in him.
He dusts a soft kiss to the top of my arm, then spends a good, long time kissing his way down, turning me soft and liquid everywhere as I realize what he’s doing. He’s kissing each bird on my skin.
As the strength of that hits me, I turn to him, our chests flush, and kiss his mouth—hard, deep, and passionate. We kiss till we’re twisting together, our bodies seeking even more contact.
With some reluctance, he breaks the embrace, then pushes me down to my back. Moving along my body, his lips whisk over each breast, travel down my belly, then to my hips.
I’m gasping and arching, desperately hoping he gets the message, when he looks up at me with a satisfied smirk. “Ask for it.”
I’m too turned on to taunt him back. “Go down on me,” I plead.
“Beg for it.” His lips twitch, then his eyes drift so he’s staring between my legs. “Beg for my mouth.”
I grow wetter from the demand. “Please. I’m begging you, Banks.”
That’s all it takes. Scooping me up, he flips me over to all fours. “Ass up,” he instructs, and I comply as heat sparks through my whole body.
Moving behind me, he settles, then hauls me up higher and dives in, kissing my pussy without mercy.
The sounds I make are long and carnal. I didn’t realize how much I needed this till he put me in this position. “Need you. Want you,” I murmur as he kisses my wetness.
Stopping briefly, he mutters, “I know.”
“So cocky,” I say, but it comes out strangled when he flicks his tongue up and down my aching core.
Soon words and taunts become meaningless. He takes me apart with each delicious flick till I’m shaking. I grab at the sheets, clutching them for dear life as his fingers dig into my flesh and his mouth owns me.
I’m dissolving into the bed, panting, moaning.
My breathing turns shallow, and I’m close, so damn close.
One more flick of his tongue, then he fastens his mouth to my clit and sucks, and pleasure pulses everywhere inside me—a wave relentlessly heading to the shore.
With a final hungry groan from him, the wave crashes.
I break apart into moans and sensations, into lust and emotions, into this endlessly wonderful moment with this man. With my face pressed against the covers, I try to catch my breath. He must move off me, because the sound of a zipper coming undone filters by, then the noise of clothes being shed.
A few seconds later, Banks is back on the bed, a foil packet in hand, and he’s gently turning me to my side. He spoons me, kissing my neck, running his hands along my arms. “Want to fuck you like this,” he murmurs.
“Do it,” I urge.
He nips at my neck harder, biting. “Fuck, Ripley. You’re so fucking perfect for me,” he mutters.
“Same,” I pant out.
“Yeah?” It’s asked full of wonder.
I don’t answer with words but actions, wriggling against him, trying to get closer.
He jerks my body tightly to his, gripping me like he never wants to let go, kissing me madly for a breathless second.
Then he stops, rolls on the condom, and nudges the head of his cock against my slickness, letting out a staggered breath.
“Need you. Want you,” he growls, repeating my words from earlier as he fills me.
With a wicked smile I say, “I know.”
He doesn’t reply in kind saying so cocky, like I did to him moments ago. Instead, he says, gravelly and vulnerably at the same time, “Good. I want you to know how much I want you. How much I need you.”
That last verb echoes in the night air. Need. As he moves in me, I feel it too. All this need. Words break apart. We’re both reduced to gasps. Groans. Heated sighs. He wraps one arm around my shoulders, the other around my waist.
It’s not slow and languid, like I expected. It’s not a middle-of-the-night tender spooning, with gentle kisses. It’s passionate and deep. It’s him taking me and showing me how much he needs me.
This kind of sex is not at all what I expected when I walked in the door tonight. But then again, everything about this man has surprised me, from his taste in music, to his smart mouth, to his big and scarred heart.
His arms are like ropes, binding me to him, keeping me in his inescapable grasp as he fucks me, his mouth skimming over my neck the whole time. “Fucking love this,” he grits out against my skin.
Flesh slaps against flesh. Sweat-slicked skin slides against sweat-slicked skin. We’re hot and sweaty and desperate, and I feel like I’m on the verge of release with every punishing thrust.
But there’s one more thing I want. We’ve tried flowers and headbands and ribbons.
The man is good with his hands though. Great, actually.
I crane my neck and look back at him, at the restraint in his features, the clench of his jaw coupled with the fire in his eyes.
“In San Francisco? When I thought you were at the hotel room door?”
He slows his hips, concern briefly flickering across his irises. “Yes?”
“I opened it and said spank me.” It feels so good to finally say that. To let him know I wanted to explore my desires with him. “I’ve never said that to anyone,” I blurt out, suddenly confessing the depth of my desires.
His cock slides deeper, and the sound he makes is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. “You can have anything with me,” he says, sounding as desperate as I feel. “Want it now, sweetheart?”
“So much.”
He lifts a hand and slaps it on the outside of my ass. The sharp sting radiates through me, then blurs into pleasure.
“More?”
“Yes. Please,” I say.
Another smack. Another cry from me. Then, my world tunnels to these sensations—his hand smacking my ass, the bite that spirals through me, the hot rush of pleasure in my core.
Then this—the giving in, as I fall to pieces in his arms one more time, sinking into blissful oblivion. He follows me there with a powerful thrust, then grunts, growls, murmurs.
And quietly kisses me.
Sometime later, I don’t know when, he’s kissing my hair, whispering sweet nothings of praise, then saying, “Next time I’m going to use that cat toy on you.”
“Only after I watch you fold the sheets and make the bed.”
“Deal.”
I feel shiny inside and out from the words next time. From the easy promise in them. From the possibility of all our next times.
A little later, after we straighten up, he pulls on clothes and fetches my dog from the house. Through the window, I spot Banks taking Hudson for a quick midnight stroll through the lavender bushes. The sight of that man walking my pooch makes my heart beat far too fast.
When he returns, he settles Hudson onto the floor and comes back to bed.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I seriously appreciate your dog-walking skills.” I pause, then add, “Among others.”
“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t ask for anything in return. I get the sense he gives to give. It’s in his nature, these little acts of service. Gently, he turns me around so I’m facing away from him. He rubs my neck, kneading the usual sore spots. Yeah, it’s definitely in his nature.
“Like this skill too,” I say, relaxing into his touch.
“Good.” He sounds happy. Maybe that’s what he gets out of these little gestures. They make him happy too—to be able to give and know it’s received. So I happily take, knowing it’s working for both of us.
A few minutes later, he kisses the back of my neck, then stops rubbing. With a sigh, he says, “I still regret not coming to your hotel room.”
“Don’t,” I say.
“But I do. If I had, maybe we could have started sooner.”
Started, not stopped.
He wraps his arms around me, like we’re not stopping whatever this is becoming—little gestures and big feelings.