8. You’re Driving Her #3
“I’ve been his sister my entire life. I’m familiar with the arrangement.”Chris stared at her.Then laughed.He couldn’t help it.Camila smiled.And for one dangerous second, the whole thing felt easy.Like he was just a man sitting with a woman he wanted.No operation.
No FBI.No cartel.No Mateo.The black Range Rover sat gleaming in the sweeping driveway of the mansion, its polished surface reflecting the warm amber light spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the house.She sat in his lap feeling the warmth radiating off his body.
He was taller than her by a good margin, and she had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes.
They were dark, almost black in this light, and there was something in them that made her stomach tighten.She grinned and reached up, dragging her thumb across his cheekbone.
His skin was warm, slightly rough where the smudge was, and he turned his head just enough to press a small kiss to the inside of her wrist. It was such a casual, intimate gesture that it hit her harder than it should have.He kissed her wrist again, then her forearm, trailing his lips down to the crook of her elbow in a way that was somehow both sweet and deeply distracting.
Camila’s breath caught, just slightly, and she felt him smile against her skin. “What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m always smiling.”
“You’re not. You’re brooding seventy percent of the time.
”He lifted his head and looked at her, and the smile was still there but it had changed — gone darker, more focused.
His hands found her waist, fingers curling around her hips through the thin cotton of the borrowed shirt.
He pulled her closer, not roughly, just with intent, until her body was flush against his.He laughed again, softer this time, and his thumbs traced small circles on her hipbones.
The Dress had ridden up, and his fingers found bare skin, and Camila felt the touch like a current running through her, thinking about exactly this — his hands, his mouth, the way he could make her feel like the only person in any room.He was hard already.
She could feel him through his jeans, the solid length of him pressed against her, and she shifted her hips just slightly — not enough to be obvious, just enough to let him know she knew.
His breath hitched, and his hands tightened on her waist.“Tease,” he said.
“Observant,” she corrected.She looped her arms around his neck and played with the hair at his nape, twisting the short strands around her fingers.
His eyes were half-closed, and he looked almost drugged — loose and warm and focused on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
“Touch me Chris,” Camila said.It wasn’t a request. It was a statement, plain and direct, and she watched something shift in his expression — a flicker of heat, of hunger, carefully controlled.
“Where?” he asked.“Everywhere.”His hands moved.
They started at her waist, sliding up under the Dress, palms flat against her ribcage.
His fingers were warm and slightly rough — he worked with them, always had — and the texture of his touch against her bare skin made her shiver.
He moved slowly, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip between her ribs, the soft underside of her breasts.
She wasn’t wearing a bra. She hadn’t bothered.
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly, and Camila let out a small, involuntary sound.
“Sensitive,” he murmured.He cupped her breasts, weighing them in his palms, running his thumbs over her nipples in slow circles until she was pressing into his hands, wanting more.
He leaned forward and kissed her collarbone, then the hollow of her throat, then the curve of her breast. His mouth was hot and open, and when he pulled her nipple between his lips, Camila’s head dropped back and she exhaled hard. “Chris —”
“Tell me.”
“More. Just — more.”He switched to the other breast, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
His hands slid down her back, fingers tracing her spine, dipping beneath the waistband of her shorts.
She could feel herself getting wet — could feel the heat building between her thighs — and she pressed herself against him, grinding slowly, feeling him twitch beneath her.She grabbed his wrists.
Not to stop him — to guide him. She pulled his right hand from her back and placed it between her legs, over the thin cotton of her panties, and held it there.
“Here,” she said. “Touch me here.”His fingers pressed against her, and even through the fabric, she could feel the pressure against her center, the friction where she needed it most. He rubbed her slowly, watching her face, reading every reaction.
Her lips parted. Her breathing quickened.
She rocked against his hand, chasing the sensation, and he responded by pressing harder, moving his fingers in a slow, deliberate circle.She lifted her hips and he pulled her short dress above her hips— and then his hand was back, this time with nothing between them.
His fingers slid through the wetness, and he exhaled sharply when he felt how ready she was.
“God, Camila.”He found her entrance and circled it, teasing, spreading the wetness around, making her crazy.
She was trembling — actually trembling, her thighs shaking against his — and she grabbed his shoulder and dug her fingers in. “Stop teasing.”
“I’m not teasing.”
“You are. You’re being evil.”
“Shut up and kiss me.”He kissed her then — deep and slow, his tongue sliding against hers, swallowing the sound she made when he finally pushed one finger inside her.
She was so wet that it was effortless, and the feeling of him there, filling her even just a little, made her moan into his mouth.
He swallowed it and pushed deeper.His finger slid in and out, slow and steady, and she could feel herself clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
He added a second finger, and the stretch made her gasp, her nails biting into his shoulders through his shirt.
“Feel good?” he asked against her lips.“You know it does.”
“I like hearing you say it.”
“Arrogant.”
“Accurate.”He curled his fingers inside her, pressing against the spot that made her vision blur, and Camila broke the kiss to drop her forehead against his shoulder.
She was breathing hard, each exhale a small sound, and she could feel herself getting wetter — could feel it on his fingers, on his hand, on her thighs.
The sounds were obscene, wet and rhythmic, and they only made her more turned on.
“More,” she said.He gave her more. Faster, deeper, his thumb finding the swollen bud above and pressing in tight circles.
She was close — she could feel it building, a tight coil low in her belly — and she grabbed his wrist again, not to guide him this time but to hold on.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Chris — don’t —”
“I won’t.”He kept the rhythm steady, his fingers driving into her, his thumb working her exactly right, and Camila felt herself climbing higher and higher until the tension snapped.
She came with a loud, unrestrained moan — her whole body tightening, her thighs clamping around his hand, her face buried in his neck.
He held her through it, his fingers still moving, slower now, drawing out every last wave until she was shaking and oversensitive and pushing his hand away.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, okay.”He pulled his fingers out slowly, and she could see the evidence of her release glistening on his hand.
He looked at her with those dark eyes, and there was something almost feral in his expression — controlled, but barely.She reached down between them and found the zipper of his jeans.
Her fingers were still shaking from the orgasm, and it took her a second, but she pulled it down.
He exhaled sharply when she freed him from the denim, his cock hard and hot in her hand. “Camila —”
“My turn.”She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slowly, and watched his face contort with pleasure. He was thick in her hand, and she could feel him pulse when she tightened her grip. She shifted her hips, positioning herself over him, and he grabbed her waist with both hands.“Wait —”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“Camila.”She looked at him. His jaw was tight, his breathing ragged, and she could see the war happening behind his eyes — the part of him that wanted to be careful warring with the part that wanted to bury himself inside her.He stared at her for a beat, then laughed — rough and unsteady — and pulled her down.He entered her slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch was overwhelming.
She was still sensitive from her orgasm, and every nerve ending felt amplified.
She sank down until he was fully inside her, and they both went still, breathing together, adjusting to the feeling.She lifted her hips and sank back down, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep and deliberate.
His hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks, and she didn’t care — she wanted the marks, wanted the evidence, wanted to feel this for days.They found a rhythm together, her riding him while he thrust up to meet her, the sound of their bodies filling the SUV.
The windows were closed.“You feel so good,” Chris said, his voice rough. “You feel — God —”