Chapter 19
Karl set his fists on his hips, outrage drawing his brows together. “I was gonna—”
“I know.” The memory of that hand-delivered orgasm in his bakery would fuel her fantasies for decades to come. “Take off your
clothes instead, please.”
To her satisfaction, he didn’t keep arguing. Instead, cheeks reddening even more above his beard, he swallowed visibly and
reached for the hem of his tee. The journey his shirt took over his head wasn’t especially slow, but she wouldn’t quibble.
Not when she could openly admire the breadth of his bare, barrel chest at long freaking last, then compare the swell of his
belly with hers—his looked harder, for whatever reason—and visually trace the central trail of hair leading inexorably downward.
Not when his strong shoulders and thick arms flexed so beautifully as he tossed aside his shirt and started on the button
of his jeans.
He was definitely the hottest man she’d ever seen shirtless. Bar none.
Sure, Rob was good-looking enough, but he had an endurance runner’s build. Stronger legs than arms. Spare and lean. Pared
down to the essentials. Given her own size and build, part of her had always worried she might snap him in half if she wasn’t
careful. Even during sex.
But Karl . . . she wasn’t worried about breaking him.
That sturdy body of his could handle hers.
And she couldn’t wait to feel all that heat, all that hair-roughened skin and tough muscle and ample softness, surrounding her so completely that she couldn’t register anything but how he felt. Around her. On top of her. Inside her.
She let out a long, low wolf whistle—half sincere appreciation, half taunt—and he flipped her off with both hands before unzipping.
When his jeans dropped to the floor a moment later, his wide, muscular thighs were finally bared to her gaze. They were glorious. Between those thick thighs, the insistent swell of his erection strained the fabric of his burgundy boxer briefs, and she
wanted to squeeze his hard cock with her hands. Suck it so deep, he’d swear and beg.
With a crook of her finger, she urged him closer. He toed off his socks before stomping up to the side of the mattress, looking
cranky. His eyes weren’t quite meeting hers, and his flush had spread down his neck and over his chest. Which meant he was
nervous and trying not to show it, but that wasn’t a problem. A few honest words would fix everything.
She flipped onto her side, facing him more directly, then offered him a smile that contained all her genuine appreciation
and desire. And when she spoke, she let those emotions inflect her voice too.
“You are so fucking sexy, Karl,” she told him bluntly. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this. Ever.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” With her forefinger, she slowly traced the line of his rampant cock through his boxer briefs. “Take these off too,
and I’ll show you just how much.”
His expression much less grumpy now, he shoved down his last remaining clothing and kicked the fabric aside, then set his
hands on his hips again and let her observe him.
In her experience, the appearance of a dick didn’t tell an outside observer much about its usefulness in bed.
But at first glance, Karl’s still seemed promising.
It reminded her of his agile, strong fingers.
Not abnormally long, but definitely thick—and hopefully very, very capable of bringing her pleasure.
Under her gaze, his erection twitched and grew even more. A responsive bolt of heat flashed between her legs at the sight,
and her next exhalation shook.
“How . . .” She cleared her throat. “How do you like to be touched?”
“By you.”
Brusque. Seemingly sincere. Not nearly informative enough.
She pressed her lips together. “That’s flattering—”
“Not flattering. Honest.”
“—but doesn’t actually help me much. So let’s get more specific. Do you want me to be gentle or firm? Slow or fast? Is there
anywhere I should avoid, or anywhere that feels particularly good, apart from”—her eyes involuntarily drifted back toward
his dick—“the obvious?”
“Touch me anywhere you damn well want,” he said immediately.
“Anywhere? Really?”
“Yeah. But make it firm, not gentle. Fast, not slow.” His chest expanded even farther in a deep breath, which he blew out
slowly. “Don’t tease, Dearborn. Can’t take it. Not this time.”
No problem. Waiting had turned from painful to unbearable somewhere around the moment his boxer briefs had dropped to the
floor.
“Fair enough.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged him onto the bed beside her, tumbling closer to his naked body as the mattress dipped under his weight. “Let me know if something doesn’t work for you, and I’ll do the same.”
A single nudge of her hand turned him onto his back. She climbed half on top of him, straddling his thigh. The coarse hair
dusting his chest, his legs, his arms scratched delightfully against her overheated skin, and she rubbed up against him for
a moment and closed her eyes at the faint abrasion against her stiff nipples and throbbing clit. He made a low, harsh sound,
one big hand clamping on her hip while the other fisted a handful of her hair.
“Too rough?” he managed to grit out.
His hold was firm. Inescapable. Not even a tiny bit painful.
“Perfect,” she told him, and hardly recognized the muffled rasp as her own voice.
Without further ado, she licked her palm, claimed his mouth in a voracious kiss, and reached between them for his dick. She
gripped it. Squeezed hard. Used the wetness at its tip to jack him in a fast rhythm as he grunted and bucked into her grasp.
His hold on her hip urged her into a rocking motion too, encouraging her to grind her clit against the tense, flexed muscle
of his thigh. He pressed her down firmly, a silent demand to chase her own pleasure. She did—and promptly lost track of what
she’d intended to do to him.
Lost in a haze of sunshine and need, she moaned into his mouth.
He ripped it from hers, panting. “Fucking take it, Molly. Take everything you want.”
His thigh was wet now, slippery from her arousal, and she was nearing orgasm, eyes squeezed shut, her inner muscles tightening
in urgent twitches around nothing as her hand slowed to a halt on his dick.
Only . . . wait. Wait.
No, this wasn’t happening. She wasn’t coming without him again.
Jerking away from his hold, she clumsily scrambled to the foot of the bed, disoriented and aching with thwarted lust. And
before he could do more than grunt out an aggrieved “Get the hell back over here, Dearborn,” she shuffled between his legs,
pushed his knees up and out, and dove down to swallow his dick.
He shouted and arched, every muscle turning to stone, his fists white-knuckled and pressed into the mattress on either side
of him. With every suck, every flick of her tongue against the underside of his pulsing cock, half-strangled sounds ripped
from his throat, but he somehow wrestled himself into near stillness. Those powerful hands didn’t grab her skull or urge her
down farther on his dick. Didn’t force her to take even a millimeter more of him into her mouth than she’d intended.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he grated out with each dip of her head, his own head pressed back so hard against the pillow she couldn’t see his face
when she glanced up, only his beard and the taut muscles and tendons in his neck.
His skin was salty and startlingly hot against her tongue, his inner thigh trembling with strain against the palm she’d braced
there to keep her steady and him open to her. Her other hand gripped his base and pumped, because no way she could fit something
that thick down her throat. She worked him ruthlessly, since that was what he needed. What he’d asked of her. And maybe she
couldn’t give him everything he wanted, but she could definitely give him this much.
When one of his hands finally uncurled and reached for her again, it shook.
His head rose from the pillow, and his fingers sifted through her hair.
Not to pull, but to gather the strands away from her face, so he could see her.
He rubbed an unsteady thumb lightly over her cheek, even while he still gripped the sheets in his other white-knuckled fist.
“So damn pretty,” he told her, his chest flushed and heaving. “Christ, you’re incredible. Those eyes. That mouth of yours.
I can’t . . .”
He trailed off, groaning long and low when her head dropped again.
His molten brown eyes locked with hers as she sucked. The fierce possessiveness in his stare, the all-encompassing need in
his tense grimace, and the tender care of his touch all gathered in a flash of electric heat between her legs. She pressed
her thighs together, sucked harder, and hazily wondered whether she had a hand to spare for her own pleasure.
Then her mouth and hand were suddenly empty, and she was being hauled up the bed and pushed down onto the mattress, onto her
back, a pillow beneath her hips. He palmed her knees. Lifted and spread them wide and crawled between them, just as she’d
done to him moments earlier. He knelt there for a moment, breaths sawing in and out of his heaving chest, and rolled on a
condom he’d produced from . . . somewhere. His bedside table, maybe.
Electrified, she licked her lips and tried to remember her plan. “I wanted—”
“You’ll get what you want,” he interrupted. “That’s a goddamn promise.”
His broad, rough fingers opened her and stroked her pussy with confident deliberation, all slow slides and swirling thumbs,
and she grasped desperate handfuls of the pillow under her head, panted, and lifted to him.
“Can’t wait any longer.” His voice was shredded. “But I’ll get my mouth on you soon. Another promise.”
She believed it. He stared between her legs like an addict spotting his next hit. And if he kept touching her like that even
a minute longer—
His hands stilled. “You ready?”
“Beyond.” She reached out to him. “Get down here, Dean.”