Christa Wick

Slow Hand Curves

“I was already climaxing again when he flipped me onto my stomach.” Briana Custer blew at her coal black bangs as if her re-telling of last night’s encounter with an old flame had her ready to pop for the sixth time in the last twenty-four hours.

I squirmed in my seat, hoping Bree would run out of steam shortly or my sister-in-law Melinda would finally shut her up.

“And…” Melinda sucked on her strawberry milkshake, her free hand gesturing for Bree to continue. Eight-and-a-half months pregnant and just off an extended bed rest, Melinda had to settle for having a sex life vicariously through Bree.

Having already listened to thirty minutes of Bree recapping sex acts, some I’d never even heard of, I was down to my last nerve. Burying my face in my hands, I groaned.

Bree rolled her eyes at me. “What’s got your granny panties in a knot?”

Much to my horror, Melinda volunteered an answer. “Amber has never-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She waved Melinda off. “I know that Rice Krispies here has only been snapped and crackled, but never popped. But her ears sure as hell aren’t virgin.”

“No, I mean, she has never…” Melinda stopped and let an imaginary quiver roll through her body. “Not even on her own.”

“Oh, Jesus!” I wrapped my hands around my head and shut my eyes. I would never again try to entertain a bedridden pregnant woman who had been house bound for a month with a discussion of lady problems.

“C’mon, quit yanking my chain.” Bree made a little come hither motion with her middle finger. “Are you saying not even after a little rub or two?”

I felt my cheeks go from pink to red. “Uhm…we’re in a public restaurant, ladies…please.”

My voice had turned into an annoying little whisper that they completely ignored. Melinda slurped the last of her shake and then authoritatively pointed its container at her best friend. “Crockers don’t masturbate — at least the ones with ovaries don’t.”

If my mother had any say, the Crockers with testicles didn’t masturbate either. Heck, they shouldn’t even know what the word meant! Eleanor Crocker Rice was a past President of the Ladies Auxiliary for the First Baptist Church of Dallas, currently serving as an Ambassador-at-Large for the Southern Baptists of Texas and darn proud of it. She would have a stroke if anyone so much as suggested a member of her bloodline touched their naughty bits.

“You mean they lie about it.” Bree snorted and shoved a French fry between expertly painted red lips. “Of course she’s masturbated.”

Blushing, I remained silent.

“So, can’t rub one out on your own, huh?” Bree tilted her head to the side, her gray eyes glittering like ash-covered diamonds. “I could give you one.”

When Bree reached for my wrist, her gaze skipping to the restroom door, I started to hyperventilate.

“Lay off.” Melinda gave her friend a soft shoulder slug, but my relief lasted no more than five seconds before she offered an alternative. “What about that guy you were telling me about?”

Bree arched one manicured brow in confusion.

“At the wellness center,” Melinda prompted, her hand making an odd twist in the air for emphasis.

Bree’s jaw dropped open, her expression widening at the suggestion. “Slow Hand Sam?”

I looked desperately between the two of them. I had no clue where this was going or who this Sam was. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t like the look on their faces. They were up to no good, clearly conspiring against me.

I started to rise from the table. Bree had driven Melinda to the restaurant and the plan was she would drive her home. I had to escape while I still could!

“Not so fast, Rice Krispies.” Bree’s hand closed around mine. I glowered at her but she wouldn’t let go. Grinning like a demon, she pushed her cell phone at Melinda. “Dial, bestie.”

Melinda picked up the phone, entering the phone number Bree rattled off from memory. Whoever was on the other end answered quickly. Before I knew what was happening, Melinda was pretending to be me.

“Yes, this is Amber Rice, I need to schedule a massage with Samuel Pepin.” She paused as the person on the other side asked a couple of questions. “Tension headaches. I’ll be paying cash…Tuesday at three? Sounds perfect!”

As the phone snapped shut, Bree released me. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a dollar bill and started to fold it in a peculiar manner.

“What did you just do?” I looked at Melinda. Her grin was only half a centimeter narrower than the one she’d wore on her wedding day. I looked to Bree, who was still folding the dollar bill. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a code.” She showed me the bill. “You go in with a hundred folded like this. You get a massage and a hand job from this really hot physical therapist-”

“I will not!”

Bree gave me another one of her eye rolls. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly clinical.”

I could tell by the demonic smile lingering on Bree’s face it was anything but clinical. I folded my arms across my chest. “If by clinical you mean illegal!”

“It’s a tip, for a job well done.” She looked to Melinda. “Go on, tell her!”

A look I’d never seen in my sister-in-law’s eyes appeared as she leaned in close. “This is all supposed to be a secret, but…”

She continued whispering in my ear, my expression growing increasingly distressed as she told me first about what Samuel Pepin had done for Imogene Fudge, whose husband had left her after she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. She followed that report with one about his extra special treatment of Elaine Tyler, who had back surgery last summer, and then Becky Clay…

“He turned Portia Philips’ scrawny ass down, though.” Bree nodded her head at me as if that little fact would clench the deal.

I shook my head. I hadn’t been abandoned by my husband, hadn’t had back surgery, and I looked nothing Portia, who was the DFW area’s answer to Paris Hilton. He had no charitable or aesthetic reason to assist me.

Not that I wanted him to!

“No,” I told them, shaking my head for emphasis. “I won’t do it and you can’t make me.”

I don’t know what gave me the idea I could resist them. After two days of relentless goading by Melinda and Bree, I arrived at the facility twenty minutes early. The building’s automatic doors slid open, exhaling cold air that hit my skin like an arctic blast of shame. Hesitating, I looked back at my little blue Prius sparkling in the Texas sun. I could still flee — Melinda would give up trying to fix me after a while and things would settle back to normal. Bree I could avoid until she too had moved on to another pet project.

“Move, fat ass.”

Startled, I turned to the familiar voice. Portia Philips’ face twisted in surprise as she realized she had just insulted someone whose daddy was richer than hers. She recovered quickly, her right nostril and eyebrow creeping up her face in an unbecoming sneer.

“Finally seeing someone about your weight problem, Amber?” She adjusted the shoulder strap on her Dolce amp; Gabbana purse. Her bony hip canted to the side as she waited for my answer. Behind her, the automatic doors slid shut.

I smiled as if I wasn’t talking to a woman who was best described as the spiritual love child of Ted Bundy and Aileen Wournos. “Here to get your STD treated?”

Her gaze narrowed, the sneer disappearing as her mouth pressed into an unflattering thin line of hate. “At least I can get laid.”

My smile widened, but I was relieved she couldn’t see my eyes hiding behind my sunglasses. “I’d be impressed if every street walker in South Dallas couldn’t make the same boast.”

Seeing Portia’s claws extend, I took a little step to the side and triggered the doors once more. If she was going to have one of her infamous hissy fits, she was going to have it with an audience. Surprising me, she gave a disdainful shrug.

“Like your opinion matters. You’re fat. No one would even talk to you if you weren’t Brandon Rice’s daughter.” She flipped a wedge of auburn hair over her shoulder, dismissing me with the same gesture and heading for her neon green Dodge Charger.

She was right — mostly. Not everyone in Dallas was as shallow as Portia Philips, just the majority. I couldn’t get through the grocery store without someone staring at my cart in judgment.

Feeling about two inches tall, and twenty feet wide, I stepped inside and ducked behind a column to wait for Portia to clear the parking lot. After that, I would leave. What in Hades had I been thinking letting Melinda pressure me into coming here!

I slumped against the cool marble column. I hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. Frustrated and desperate, my brain had been on vacation. I would remedy that with a call canceling the appointment once I was safely in my car.

Leaving the comfort of my hiding spot, I headed for the door. A white-haired woman with a clipboard intercepted me. She cupped a hand that looked frail but felt like steel around my elbow and steered me deeper into the building.

“Reception is over here, dear.” She talked as fast as she walked, which was slower than tree sap in February. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No…I mean yes, but I’m…”

Before I could finish, my guide handed me off to a middle-aged woman seated behind a polished wooden counter. “Got a fresh one for you, Cora.”

I pushed my signature blue sunglasses up into my blonde curls. “Yes, I have an appointment with Samantha Pepin that I need to can-.”

The receptionist looked at me like I’d just parked a UFO in the waiting area and had sparkly antennae growing out of my head. “Who?”

“Samantha,” I repeated just as I had rehearsed at least a dozen times in the last two days to appear ignorant of Mr. Pepin’s special services. It didn’t matter if I was intent on canceling the appointment. I still didn’t want anyone suspecting I was here for anything more than a legitimate massage. “Or does she go by Sam?”

“You mean Samuel.” The woman enunciated his name very carefully, her scowl disappearing before she slid into the last syllable. “She is a he, honey. That a problem for you?”

“Oh, dear!” I tried my best to sound distressed, which wasn’t a complete sham. I really was distressed, my stomach twisted in knots. I studied my watch for a long second before replying. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone-”

“Sorry, sugar, all booked up.” She clicked her mouse and then peered at her computer screen. “I have an hour free for next Thursday with Rachel.”

I shook my head, half turning for the door. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the building, I saw that Portia hadn’t left yet. She stood next to her car, one manicured nail pressed lightly against the expansive chest of a male. One of the window’s intersecting steel support beams blocked his face, but he was dressed in a business suit and had an athletic build. Knowing Portia, his suit was silk and she’d caught sight of a Rolex on his wrist or some equally expensive brand.

His body language told me he was equally interested in Portia. He stepped closer to her, his torso leaning in. She pressed her whole palm against his chest and coyly turned her head. Watching them, a slow burning need started to heat low in my belly. I looked at the receptionist again, my gaze pleading with her to give me a reason to stay.

She reached along the counter and gave my hand a soft pat. “Sam’s a real professional, honey. Five minutes with him and you’ll forget it’s a man that’s got his hands on you.”

That wasn’t at all what I was hoping for, but I nodded. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out my bankcard. Seeing the hundred dollar bill tucked to the side and so precisely folded, I blushed as I handed her the bit of plastic. I waited, cheeks growing hotter, as she processed the payment and then I followed her through a door and into a closed hallway with two chairs on opposite sides of a small water fountain.

“Have a seat and I’ll tell Sam you’re ready.”

I sat down and immediately started fidgeting once the woman was out of sight. I tucked my legs along one side of the chair before I realized I was subconsciously posing. Straightening them, I looked down and saw the swell of my stomach. I winced, folded my hands over it then decided that only drew attention to its size.

I had just tucked my legs along the side of the chair again when I heard a very deep, masculine voice call my name.

“Miss Rice?”

He was standing behind me and to my left. I looked over my shoulder and froze.

Samuel Pepin made one hell of a first impression. He was tall, at least six-two. Deliciously broad-shouldered. The white polo shirt with the center’s logo on it showed off his thick biceps and deep tan. Beige Dockers hugged his narrow hips and fought to contain what promised to be very muscular thighs — not that I’d ever see them uncovered.

As magnificent as it was, his body finished a close second to his face. It was only two in the afternoon, but his six-o’clock shadow was out in full force, darkening his expression and contouring his cheeks. The thick black eyebrows and heavy lashes made his emerald-colored eyes pop. A firm-set mouth and square jaw ensured the overall effect was ferociously masculine.

Sam repeated my name, his mouth quirking up in a smile that softened his features. I nodded, realized my jaw was about two inches away from touching the floor and pressed my lips together. Standing, I cast my gaze at the door that led to the reception area and a very lonely sense of safety — at least until I got to the parking lot and had to watch some jerk drooling over Little Miss Satan.

A warm, strong hand closed around my elbow. “Oh no, Hollywood. You’re coming with me.”

Coming? Certainly I was close — at least I thought I was. If I knew whether I really was close, I wouldn’t have been there at all. But the juncture of my thighs had never felt so electric. Muscles I’d never felt before were starting to dance and squeeze and something inside me gave a little roll that turned my knees to rubber.

Feeling lightheaded, I closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was staring down at my face, his gaze hooded by his thick lashes.

“Are you feeling okay?” His other hand wrapped around my opposite shoulder to steady me.

Realizing I was about to nod again like the complete dolt I was, I gathered what little composure I had left and lightly brushed his hand from me. “I’m fine, Mr. Pepin. Why did you call me Hollywood?”

The grin came back, my nipples instantly puckering in response. Like the rest of him, his smile was sexy as sin.

“Because of these.” His hands, surprisingly gentle for their size, reached up, parted my blonde curls, and lifted my sunglasses off. “And call me Sam.”

Carefully folding the glasses, he hooked one of their metallic blue arms inside the collar of his polo shirt. His hands took possession of me once more and guided me into the treatment room. Stopping in front of a padded chair, he picked up a remote and started pushing buttons.

The chair straightened and lifted until it looked like a tall, narrow table with over-sized cushions. He folded the arms down, turned to a standing cabinet and pulled out a lightweight terry robe. He offered the robe to me, but didn’t let go when I reached to take it.

“What kind of music relaxes you?”

I shrugged. There was no way I was going to relax with him in the same room with me. His rich, warm voice lapped at my thighs and the way his scent curled around my senses struck a very real fear that I would do something embarrassing if he got any closer.

His smiling gaze turned impish. “When you’re in the tub, the water all warm and bubbly…don’t you have any music playing?”

I blushed, embarrassed that I was incapable of even taking a bath like a normal woman. “Hymns, mostly.”

Sam’s chuckle went straight to my thighs, jolting my swollen flesh like a hard smack. “That’s a waste of a bubble bath, Hollywood. How about I line us up some Etta James?”

“Okay.” Trying not to seem like a complete square, I gave him a tentative smile. “Is she new?”

“New? Etta James?” His voice suddenly grew stern, only the playful tilt of his head and the twinkle of his bright green eyes stopped me from panicking. “Miss Rice, you put that robe on and prepare to be schooled.”

He left me to change, my expression wide-eyed and slack-jawed as I wondered if he had any idea why I was there.

I was sitting on the edge of the table-chair thingie when Sam returned, my legs demurely crossed at the ankles. I was too short for the table’s height. Even pointed down, my toes were still half a foot from the floor.

My hands fisting the lapels of the robe, I forced a blush down as he approached. “There wasn’t a sash.”

Watching me from the corner of his eyes, he plugged an iPod into a docking station. Just enough of his grin was visible to make me forget about the sash and meekly obey him when he told me to lie down on my belly.

His hands dipped between my chest and the cushioned surface, catching the edge of the lapels and lifting the top half of the robe off my shoulders and down my arms. “I couldn’t do that if there was a sash, could I?”

“No, I guess not.” I lifted my head as he slid a pillow under it.

His fingers darted out and smoothed my curls to the side as a woman’s sultry voice started playing over the docking station’s speakers. She sang like pure sex and I wondered why I’d never heard of her.

Oh, yeah — she sang like pure sex. Despite being twenty-six and living in my own home, I still worried about my mother examining the contents of my iPod during one of her unannounced visits. She most definitely would not approve of this woman with the deep purring voice.

To make things even cozier, Sam grabbed the remote and brought the lights lower, their color taking on a deep blue. Reaching into the cabinet, he pulled out a small hand-sized machine and plugged it into the wall.

He pushed a few small glass bottles around before looking at me over his shoulder. “Tension headaches, right?”

“Yes.” Melinda had been telling the truth in that respect. I had the worst headaches. They went on for days, but a lot of high-priced doctors kept saying it was nothing. “That’s why I’m here.”

That last bit was a lie and I turned my head so I wouldn’t have to look at him as my blush started all over again.

I heard Sam fiddle with the small machine for a few seconds and then the scent of almonds and chamomile started to drift through the room. A few more seconds passed before I felt the brush of his fingertips along the back of my neck.

He moved the bit of hair covering my neck to the side. His big hands gripped my shoulders and took a tentative squeeze. The woman was moaning as she sang, a deep throbbing cello coiling around her voice and sparking a sudden urge within me to moan right along with her.

Sam’s hands moved down my back, the fingers spreading like a butterfly’s wings to whisper along the sides of my torso. His thumbs pressed gently at my vertebrae, testing for any sensitivity. “Where does all this tension come from?”

He murmured the words. Feeling each one as a little puff of air between my shoulder blades, I realized he was leaning very close to me. I bit down on the whimper threatening to escape and managed a short response.

“Spreadsheets.”

“Okay.” He chuckled again, the air tickling my flesh and causing my shoulders to twitch. “What goes into the spreadsheets?”

“Numbers.” Stifling a groan, I closed my eyes. I sounded like a real Rhodes scholar — not! Admittedly, I was pleased I had managed any answer while he was touching me. His chest hovered so close to my back I could feel his body heat. I swallowed and gave my throat a little clearing before I elaborated. “I’m an actuarian.”

I didn’t bother mentioning that I worked at the insurance firm my father’s grandfather had founded. Like my brother Beau, I was learning the business from the ground up so I could help run it one day.

“Ah, I’m terrible with math,” Sam confessed. “But great with my hands.”

He started to fold the robe a little further down my backside. I clutched at the fabric, a small gasp escaping me and making my cheeks heat with embarrassment. Making no comment, he skipped over the robe and down to the back of my knees. A hand on each calf, he started to knead the flesh.

It wasn’t so much that my tension went away — it just sort of moved someplace else. Bits of it drew at my chest, making my breath come quicker. Other bits swam in my gut, the ripples so palpable it was if he already had started stroking me down there.

With Sam’s firm hands continuing to mold my muscles, I lost track of my own fingers. They slipped inside the robe’s pocket to brush against the hundred dollar bill I’d tucked inside after changing. My fingers were still acting of their own accord when they pulled the bill out and started to line old Benny boy up along the edge of my pillow.

Sam’s hands froze. “Put that away.”

If I had thought his voice sounded stern earlier, I now knew the difference. I reached for the bill, my hand shaking and fumbling in an attempt to pick it up. “I’m sorry…I…”

I was fast approaching a record level of mortification — even for me. Clutching at my robe, I tried to sit up, handfuls of my overgenerous flesh escaping the fabric. I managed to get myself upright, my feet dangling and Sam’s big body blocking me from jumping down.

“I misunderstood — I’ll leave — please don’t call security.” The words came out faster than I’d ever spoken before. My eyes were wet, leaving me one blink away from crying. “It’s all a mistake.”

Sam plucked the hundred from my fingers, his gaze narrowing as he held it up. “You mistakenly folded a hundred dollar bill into a triangle with just Franklin’s face showing?”

“No,” I whispered. “Someone else folded it for me. Please, just let me go. You can keep the money for my troubling you.”

“Well, you have been bothering me since you stepped into my room.”

I felt a stinging pinch in my nose as I held back fresh tears. I hadn’t meant any of it as an insult. I looked at him, blinked once and felt the hot splash of tears on my cheeks. “You don’t have to be cruel. I said I was going.”

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere, Hollywood.” Sam tucked the hundred back into the robe’s pocket. Then he steered me until my back was against the table’s cushion, my stomach and tits up. “Neither are you paying for what I’m about to do to you.”

“What you’re about-”

He stopped the question with his lips against mine. Like his hands, they exerted the perfect amount of pressure, pushing and spreading at the same time until my mouth opened. His tongue slid in, curling to hook against my top lip and tug. He pushed the robe’s lapels apart, the fabric slipping like water through my fingertips.

Still kissing me, Sam palmed my bare breast. The contact instantly evoked a shuddering moan from me. His tongue probed deeper, exploring along the inside of my top lip before licking the bottom one.

Oh, Jesus. I’d never been kissed before, not in any way that counted, most certainly not like this or by a man like Sam. Another moan shook loose from me. His thumb and two fingers zeroed in on my swollen nipple, rolling the sensitive tip back and forth while he sucked at the corner of my mouth.

I didn’t need any prior experience to know he was an insanely good kisser. No, he was a great kisser. He mixed just the right amount of force with a little nip or lick, leaving no question who was in charge of the kiss. I pressed my palms against his shoulder, too timid to clutch at him no matter how much I wanted to.

“This is what you came for, right?” His voice had mellowed to rough silk. His lips brushed along my jaw line before returning for another kiss.

“I’m n-not sure,” I confessed. There had been no mention of kissing, or that Sam would touch my breasts or anywhere other than down there.

“You want me to continue.”

No questioning lilt marked the end of his sentence. He was telling me I wanted him to continue. He was right. I couldn’t bring myself to admit it — not with words. Slowly I nodded, the motion precise so that there would be no mistake between the vertical lift of yes and the horizontal slide of no.

A smile played along one side of his face. The hand teasing my breast moved lower. His fingertips slid beneath my panties. The fabric was a light satin pink trimmed with lace. I had purchased them and a matching bra the night before.

The pads of his fingers gently raked the soft blonde fur covering my sex. He sucked at my earlobe, whispering and taking small bites that made me moan. His fingers started a light dance against the seam of my swollen folds. I squirmed, wanting to lift my hips but without the boldness to do so.

His hand dipped down, discovering me wet, my thighs clenching. Hooking a finger, he trailed it back up, separating my lower lips to find the hard pearl they concealed.

“Such a thick, swollen clit, Hollywood.” Sam nuzzled my neck. “Is it sensitive?”

“Oh, yes.” Most definitely. I swore I could feel the ridges of his thumbprint as he moved down to stroke the length of that hard ridge of flesh. A thrust escaped my control and I closed my eyes in shame.

“Shhhh…Amber.” His fingers moved back down, reaching my hole and tracing its edge. The muscles contracted at his touch. “Very reactive pussy. Is that word familiar to you?”

“N-not really.” Another swirling, tracing sweep of his fingers around the throbbing tissue brought my knees jerking up, my thighs spreading ever so slightly.

“Does it offend you?”

I shook my head. The word didn’t sound bad the way his mouth shaped it. Naughty, yes. Very, very naughty, but not the least bit offensive.

“Good. It’s a hot, sweet pussy. I’ll make it purr.”

My eyes rolled up, lashes fluttering. He might not be able to hear it, but I was purring already. Moisture leaked from me, wetting the smooth strip of skin that ran down to my other hole. Contractions squeezed at both openings, the intervals between each pulse growing shorter and shorter.

His thumb rubbing at my clit, Sam pressed two fingers against the opening to my pussy. Sensing his intention, I tensed and gave out a little cry.

He couldn’t know.

Neither could I warn him.

“Amber, unless you tell me…” His throat caught at the words. He swallowed hard, the first sign of uncertainty since I’d met him. “Unless you tell me you’re a virgin, I’m going to stroke inside you.”

My hands had never left his shoulders. I fisted the fabric of his shirt. I was afraid to have him enter me, to lose my virginity in a therapy room with a near stranger. But I was more afraid that he’d stop cold and send me packing if I admitted I had never been with a man.

“Baby, answer me before I go too far.”

I closed my eyes and bit at my bottom lip. I was still breathing through my nose, but fast and very deep, my chest rising and falling faster than the beats of my heart. I had to trust he would go only so far as was right.

I heard a soft growl and then his lips swept down, landing for a second on my collarbone before his mouth took possession of my nipple. His hand swiveled between my legs so that the heel of his palm pressed against my opening while his center three fingers moonwalked up and down my clit.

He pulled the nipple taut, hooking and holding my gaze when I finally opened my eyes to watch him. He was so damn beautiful. The green of his irises had darkened to a deep forest, while the thick dark brows and lashes made the remaining pale green embers smolder.

Releasing the nipple with a wet pop, his mouth traveled lower, following the contours of my stomach and hip as he moved around the table. He peeled my wet panties off, pocketing them with a devilish smile before his hands and thick forearms slid under my bottom and dragged me to the edge of the table.

He wasn’t…really, not…

Those green eyes flashed and I realized he really was going to do it — he was going to kiss me down there, to part my folds with his tongue the same way he had with his fingers. He was going to lick and suck and-

Oh, sweet heaven! His mouth made contact. My back instantly arched, pushing my breasts high, their tips hard and aching from the absence of his lips. Long strokes started with the tip of his tongue teasing the entrance to my pussy and ended at the top split of my labia. Just when I thought my bones were going to crawl out of my skin, his lips settled on the most sensitive part of my sex — that hard little nodule tucked within the hood of my clit. He worked its edges, circling, attacking.

Unable to stop myself, I grabbed two fistfuls of his luxurious dark hair. He wouldn’t let me hold him where I wanted — desperately needed — him to be. He pulled my hands from his hair, his mouth abandoning the throbbing focus of my entire being to kiss my fingertips.

“You’re having dinner with me, tonight.”

Dinner? He’d stopped to ask me out — really? Didn’t he know how close I was or that I had never…

“Tonight, Amber.” He blew a cold line of air against that small kernel of need.

“Yes, yes…tonight…please…” My hips gave an impatient roll. My hands flexed and twitched inside his like a spider on angel dust. “Just…finish, Samuel…please.”

Slow to restart, he seemed intent on driving me crazy all over again, pushing me back from the abyss of my first ever climax just so he could teasingly reel me in once more. The side of his puckered mouth brushed the inner flesh of one plump lip as he continued to blow cold air on my achy little clit. He repeated the motion, this time along the other thick, swollen lip of my pussy. His mouth hovered, the cold air replaced by warm and humid breath.

“Such a sweet tasting pussy.” His words whispered against my skin, made me whimper with my need. “Are you going to let me eat it again?”

“Oh, yes.” My eyelids fluttered. As far as I was concerned, we could spend eternity in that room. The contractions that had gripped my pussy spread their way along my clit. I could feel the skin pulling taut, imagined it dancing upwards before the contraction ended.

Sam watched the motion repeat, kissing the center each time the muscle relaxed. The interval between kisses lengthened. The kisses became shorter — the contractions stacking hard and nearly unrelenting. His tongue rejoined the dance, made fast little flicks against that dangle of flesh. The pads of his thumbs teased my opening, threatening but never venturing inside.

I had lost all track of the music, but I caught the thread of the woman’s voice, the rumbling melody reaching its crescendo. I lifted my hips, pushing, grinding, gasping…

“Oh!” My hips jerked. My mouth opened in another gaping oh and then my expression froze. I was coming, my climax rolling through me like a freight train across an open field. No x-ray would show it, but my bones fractured, splintering into a million pieces if only for a few exquisite moments.

My lower body twitching with the aftershocks of my release, Sam eased me back onto the table. He stepped around to my side, one hand quickly reclaiming possession of my pussy while the other cleared the wild fall of curls from my face. Gripping my forehead and my pussy, he bent down and kissed me. My juices were still on his lips and tongue, the scent and flavor mingling with his.

“Address on your sheet the right one?” His gaze studied me as if wary of a lie.

I nodded. I’d been too naive to think of listing a false address.

“Good, I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.” He paused as a fresh smile surfaced across his handsome face. “It would make me very happy if you wore a skirt or dress. Will you do that?”

Sam didn’t give me my panties back. I sort of asked him, but his mischievous grin told me I would have to do more than sort of ask for their return. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him keeping them as a trophy. That was half the problem — were they a trophy or a memento? When I considered them as a memento, my heart started skipping happily and a silly grin occupied half my face. But I didn’t want him to be the kind of man who took trophies.

I decided to ignore the question and buy new panties because, damn it, Bree had been one-hundred-percent correct when she joked about my granny panties. Every last pair was one of three colors: white, black or beige. They were all cotton and all plus size. Yep, I’m a real wild child.

Browsing the lingerie section, I had no idea what Sam had in mind for the night, knew even less what I wanted him to have in mind. Still, I figured I couldn’t go wrong with silky ice blue panties and a matching bustier that would make my mother faint if she ever laid eyes on it.

Sam didn’t mention where we were going for dinner. Whether it was fancy or casual didn’t really matter when it came to my closet. The few dresses and skirts it held were either for church or work. So I stopped at the dress shop on my way home. Normally I keep my arms covered up, but I picked a sleeveless dress with a draped criss-crossing bodice and belted waist. Top and bottom, the free flowing fabric was draped. A deep turquoise, the dress had a full, circle skirt that fell a few inches past my knees to preserve my modesty while showing off a little bit of leg. Surprising, I know, but I like my legs — at least the parts below the knees. They look like they belong to a much thinner woman. I’m certain somewhere there is a really skinny girl pissed off because somehow she got my legs and I got hers.

Still smiling at the thought, I met Sam at my front door. I had finished my outfit with a white tatted shawl around my shoulders, pearl white pumps and a matching clutch. He had changed into a slim-fit, button-down, collared-shirt in a dark charcoal that had the thinnest of pinstripes. He wore the bottom out over dress slacks of the deepest gray. He presented a mouthwatering sight. Too mouthwatering, actually, for him to take me on a date or anything like it.

He caught me before I could retreat into my house. His hand curved around the back of my neck, the fingers pushing up into my curls as he pulled me toward him. He kissed the corner of my jaw, just a little below my ear. “Pure Hollywood.”

I pressed a palm against his chest and looked away. The gesture came close to the one I’d witnessed with Portia that afternoon. Only I truly am demure. My blush was real. It started somewhere above my knees and ended at the top of my cheeks.

Cupping my elbow, Sam led me to his car. It was a sedan, not much different than the decidedly family car Beau had complained about trading his Mustang in for once Melinda was six months pregnant and couldn’t slide into the sports car’s front seat like she used to.

Seeing the sedan, I realized I didn’t know anything about Sam other than where he worked. He was maybe six years older than me, judging by the laugh lines that were just starting to appear. He could be divorced.

Oh, double Dixie, I swore inside my head. He could be married! Worried, I turned to him as he opened the passenger side door.

“What’s wrong, Amber?” He squeezed my shoulder, his gaze growing concerned.

I looked at the sedan, worried I was about to insult him for the second time that day, but I had to know. “You’re single, right?”

Sam chuckled, his expression relaxing again. “I drive a truck, Hollywood. Single cab, bench seat, with a sticky manual transmission and a bad rear shock.”

Taking my hand, he maneuvered me into the seat, reached across me and fastened my safety belt. Cupping my face, he stared straight into my eyes. “This is my sister’s car. She’s got two rugrats.”

Embarrassed by not trusting him, I lowered my lashes. “I like trucks. My daddy drives one that sounds a lot like yours.”

His thumb brushed across my lower lip. “I’ll remember that for our second date.”

Stunned, I watched him circle the front of the car. Did he really want another date? Triple Dixie — I’d never had a second date. Most guys decided halfway through the first that being seen in public with me wasn’t worth getting close to Brandon Rice.

Sam folded his long frame into the driver’s seat. Seeing my expression, he quirked a brow at me. “Am I being too optimistic, Hollywood?”

That made me smile and lower my lashes again. I couldn’t remember smiling on any of my other dates. Of course, those dates had all been orchestrated by someone else — mother, Beau, Melinda…even Bree had arranged one of my dates. My father was the only one that didn’t try to fix me.

“Is that a yes or a no?” One eye on the rear view mirror the other on me, Sam backed out of the drive and onto the street.

“We’ll see.” I gave his shoulder a soft push.

Capturing my hand, he held it against the side of his thigh, his thumb lightly stroking the inside of my wrist. The sedan was new enough to have a bunch of controls on the steering wheel. He pressed one and the CD player started. I recognized the song immediately, even though I hadn’t heard of Etta James before that day.

“Are you being sentimental or just playing dirty?” I teased.

He gave me a quick side glance, his smile all bad boy beneath those dark brows and heavy lashes. “Can’t I be both?”

The possibility hadn’t occurred to me. I liked the idea. I liked it a lot, in fact. Turning coy for maybe the first time in my life, I smiled back at him. “I guess it depends where you come to a stop.”

His smoldering look hit me like a premonition. Or a memory — it was the same hot gaze I’d seen when he pulled my nipple taut, the hint of teeth pressing at the swollen tip. His right brow had the same slight lift as when he’d looked up from between my parted thighs to tell me we were having dinner together.

Ten minutes later, Sam pulled into the parking area of a steakhouse on Lemmon at Wycliff and released his safety belt. “Nervous, Hollywood?”

I nodded a little too emphatically.

“I should try to put you at ease, I guess.” He rested his palm on my shoulder. His fingers moved in a lazy caress along the back of my neck. “Thing is, you’re so damn sexy when you’re nervous.”

Sam leaned into me, one side of his massive chest pressing against my arm.

“Your mouth quivers.”

He kissed my quivering mouth.

“Your cheeks flush.”

He brushed his lips across my burning cheeks.

“And these…” He ran a finger over the straining point of one nipple. “They get so hard I want to strip you naked so I can suck on them.”

“Dinner?” My squeaky plea didn’t stop his slow caress of my skin. And if he didn’t stop, I had the sinking feeling I’d wind up on the ten o’clock news in handcuffs for having sex in the back seat of his sister’s sedan.

“Damn, baby girl.” He stroked my knee through the fabric of my dress. “Your sexy factor just went up another notch.”

I snorted in my distress. “Yeah, I’m so sexy I’m about to pass out.”

He bit his lip, only marginally concealing his amusement. “We can’t have that.”

I shook my head, agreeing with him.

Throwing me a wink, he released my safety belt. “At least not yet.”

Dinner was both delicious and pure torture. We had sauteed mushrooms as an appetizer. I had asparagus salad and broiled salmon for my meal. Sam had a whole damn cow. Well, almost. He had a twenty-two ounce Kansas City strip steak with the bone in. A little too red for my comfort zone, but the lights at the steakhouse were low enough I didn’t have to look at it.

I wasn’t the only one using the dim lighting to my advantage. Ten minutes after being seated at a circular booth Sam had reserved, I realized why he had requested I wear a dress or skirt.

All the better to tease me with!

Sam could teach a master class in seduction. His hand kept taking discreet trips underneath my skirt. He never ventured higher than halfway up my thigh, but it was more than enough to have me panting and squirming, all the little muscles he was ignoring flexing in their desire to be noticed.

Trying to distract him, I traded questions about his family and ambiguously answered a few about my own. I didn’t dare ask him the question burning a hole in the tip of my tongue, but, by the time dessert rolled around, he broached the subject on his own.

Capturing my chin with a gentle pinch, he stared into my eyes. “You know I’ve only done that once before.”

I chewed at my bottom lip before responding. “You seemed much more experienced.”

I was only half teasing. Certainly I realized he wasn’t talking about the act he had performed, but the surroundings and situation. I just didn’t know if I could believe him.

Sam clarified with a rueful smile. “With a patient, Hollywood. And today is the only time I’ve been glad she couldn’t keep quiet.”

His gaze darkened and he let go of my chin to push the edge of a napkin around. “She was suicidal. Had cancer and a cheating husband divorcing her and trying to take everything.”

“Did you really turn Portia Philips down?”

Another rueful smile flickered across his face. “From the tips of her extensions all the way down to her thousand-dollar pedicure.”

He gave a small shudder as if he’d just thrown back the sheet on a corpse. “I’m surprise she told anyone.”

I returned to chewing at my lip. Portia was two years older than me. She’d been cast in Most Eligible Dallas, but the rumor was her daddy threatened to disinherit her if she went on the show. Before today, I hadn’t encountered a single male that wasn’t related to me who would turn Portia down. But Sam had and, even harder to figure out, acted like he was attracted to me.

He studied me, his brows pinching as he saw me shredding my lower lip. “You don’t believe me?”

“I want to, but I’ve been accused of being a little naive.”

He gave a little nod, either accepting my reply or agreeing that I was foolishly trusting. He brushed a curl from my cheek, his fingers lingering to stroke my skin. “For the rest of the night, listen to that little voice telling you to trust me.”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “It’s the little voice saying not to…everything else…”

Feeling my cheeks start to glow, I snapped my mouth shut and cast my gaze to the side. In over my head already, I didn’t need to wear my heart on my sleeve.

Sam leaned in and nuzzled my ear. “Even better.”

Thirty seconds later, he snagged the waiter for the check. Two minutes after that, we were in the sedan and heading for my house.

The drive home offered a brief respite. The streets were bright and half the vehicles sharing the road were SUVs or full-sized trucks, their drivers and passengers able to peek down at us at will. His hand only rested on my covered thigh, chaste but for the occasional squeeze.

His display of propriety ended the second he parked beneath my carport and killed the engine. A quick flick of his hand and his seat belt was off. I had the feeling he didn’t intend to just walk me to my door.

His palm against my cheek, Sam kissed me. He took his time, teasing the corner of my mouth. He coaxed my lips into parting with a slow slide of his tongue across their seam. His hand moved down my throat, the fingers dipping into the bodice of my dress and tracing the edge of my bustier.

“Invite me in, Amber.”

I answered with a whimper.

His lips found my throat. He sucked at the hollow harboring my pulse then licked a short line up to the lobe of my ear. “You can be more decisive than that, baby.”

Decisive was other people’s forte, not mine. My parents, Beau, Melinda…

His hand delved deeper into my bodice, parting the fabric of my bustier from my skin. Finding the nipple, he gave it a soft pinch as he bit lightly at my jaw. “Invite me in.”

“Would you like some tea?” My lips kept quivering even after I finished the query. My hips had started to move, my round bottom shifting against the seat cushion. Muscles pulled tighter, squeezing my labia together as his mouth moved back down my neck.

“Tea?” Amusement rippled through his voice.

“I don’t have any coffee…we could go get-”

“No,” he laughed and released my seat belt. “I can work with tea.”

Sam came around and opened my door for me, holding my hand for balance as I stepped from the car. He helped me open my front door, too, when my hands proved too shaky to thread the key into the lock.

I have a simple little house, mostly paid for. No garage, just a carport. A single bathroom and two bedrooms, one of which serves as my home office. The kitchen and living room are divided by a breakfast bar and overhead cabinet instead of a wall. No one walking inside would think I come from money. Same goes for Beau’s house. Our father doesn’t tolerate any slackers. We draw regular salaries, same as anyone else doing our job at the company, and most of our shares are held in trust until the day we take more senior positions.

Since there was no grand tour to give, I headed into the kitchen and started filling the kettle. I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling and the water splashed against the side of the sink. Sam came up behind me, put one arm around my waist and took the kettle away.

“Baby, I don’t think you’re safe in the kitchen right now.” He nuzzled my neck and then twirled me until I was pointed in the direction of the breakfast counter. “You park that sweet bottom on one of those stools and let me do this.”

Blushing madly, I obeyed. I directed him to the cupboard where the tea was at, then the one that held my grandmother’s serving set. In between his preparations, he watched me. Not quite a leer, his gaze was suggestive. Sexually Machiavellian if there is such a thing. He had me squirming in under a minute the way he used his eyes to caress my breasts, hips and legs.

“I’m starting to think you’re incorrigible, Samuel Pepin.”

“I can’t help it if I love looking at you, Hollywood.” His cheeks actually turned pink beneath his tan at the admission. “Makes me hungry watching your nipples pucker and that sweet, round ass wiggle as you wonder just what I’m going to do to you.”

I looked away, a shiver running through my body. I had been wondering if his hands would soon follow the path his eyes were taking, just how far he wanted to take things tonight and how far I would let him go.

Was it wrong to let him go all the way? Too soon? Would I ever see him again if I let him take my virginity tonight? Would I see him if I did?

Feeling his hand on my hip, I gave a little jump. I hadn’t sensed him crossing the room.

He turned my face so I was looking at him. “I’m not sure I like what you’re thinking, Hollywood.”

I stared down at the sliver of space between us. “What am I thinking?”

“Big questions is my guess.” He wrapped one of my naturally tight curls around the tip of his index finger. “Serious questions. You want to ask them out loud?”

I immediately shook my head. He didn’t need a front row view of my insecurities.

“Mmmm…Let’s start with the simple questions, then.” He arranged the curl he had toyed with behind my ear. His lips touched my cheek. “Do you want me to touch you?”

That was an easy yes, my reaction so prompt I felt his mouth spread in a smile against my skin. “Good, because-”

The kettle started whistling, drawing him away from me. I started to rise and follow him, but he gestured for me to go into the front room. I sat down on the couch, my legs tucked to the side. The skirt of my dress fell above my knee from the position. I went to adjust it and stopped.

Sam had already seen a lot more than my knee and it was just the two of us. I brought my knees a little higher up on the cushion and let the fabric of the skirt drape behind the back of my lower thigh. I studied the effect for a second and then looked toward the kitchen area to see Sam lift the serving tray.

With his long, muscled legs, it didn’t take him very long to reach me. He placed the tray on the table. Lifting the lid from the sugar server, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Three cubes,” I answered.

He lowered three cubes into the cup and slowly stirred the tea, his gaze once again freely roaming my body. He landed, at last, on my exposed knee and a smile crept up the right side of his face. I immediately moved to lower the hem.

“No you don’t, Hollywood.” Placing the spoon on the tray, he brushed the hem of my dress a little higher up my thigh. Returning to my tea, he lifted the small cream jug.

“Just a tip,” I whispered, my throat suddenly dry.

He poured the cream in, gave the tea another stir and then started to hand the cup to me. I reached for it, but he pulled back.

Sam looked at the shake still infecting my hands. “Can you promise me you’re not going to burn yourself?”

Closing my eyes, I tried to calm my nerves. It was ridiculous the way I was shaking. A trembling virgin — so very cliche, but absolutely true. I opened my eyes again, touched by the genuine concern that shaped his face.

“I can’t promise.”

Putting the cup back on the tray, he nodded. “We’ll have tea later. Right now, it’s time for cream and cake.”

“Cake?” I wrinkled my brow at him.

Another nod as he advanced on me. “Yes, baby. I love cake.”

His hands curled around my shoulders and exerted a gentle pressure, pushing me into the side pillows. When I was on my back, his hand wrapped around the calf of my inside leg and lifted it onto the couch as he slid onto his knees.

Pinching the hem of my dress, he slowly peeled it up the length of my thighs. “And, boy, do I love cream. Your cream, Amber.”

“I…we…uhm…” I tried to scoot up the couch, away from his fast descending lips.

“Remember, baby, simple stuff first.” His hands gripped my hips, stopping my retreat. “You want me to touch you.”

Yes, yes, yes! I took a shuddering breath in. I wanted him to do what he’d done at the wellness center. I wanted him in me, too. I wanted him to hold me, take me. I wanted to hear the rough whisper of his voice as he came with me.

“I do.” I agreed.

His eyes closed, his expression serene as he brushed a bristly cheek against the inside of my thigh. When he looked back up, I felt the heat of his gaze searing me. He palmed my mound, gave it a few rhythmic squeezes and then he thumbed the gusset of my panties to the side.

I knew I already was very wet. My juices had been flowing most of the evening. All it took was the briefest caress or contemplative look from Sam and I got all moist.

Sam stood and reached his hands out to me. “Baby, I want you in your bed.”

Holding his hands for support, I rose. My legs were trembling now, the heels suddenly dangerous. He wrapped his arm around my waist, steadying me. It took a full minute to get down my short hall. He pushed me up against the wall at one point, his hands covering my breasts. He mashed them, mauled them, his mouth possessing mine as the hard line of his erection pressed against my stomach.

Still in the hall, he stripped my dress from me. Sinking to his knees again, he pulled the waist band of the panties down to the top of my thigh. He nosed the fur covering my sex and then his tongue pushed through the silky strands to run a line up my clit. He pulled the panties down slowly, a lick for each inch he lowered them. My hips took up a slow grind.

Sam had me step out of the panties and then part my legs. He spread my labia, his teeth grazing my clit before he stood up and led me the rest of the way into my bedroom with only my heels and bustier on me.

Pushing open the door, I groaned internally. The room was clearly no man’s land. I had the same canopied double bed I’d slept in as a little girl. A duvet of white eyelet with pastel colored ribbons threaded through it covered the mattress. Lace fringed pillows rested against a headboard of pale tulipwood. More lace wrapped around the four posts that held the canopy up.

I lived in a Disney kind of bedroom — guilty as charged.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Maneuvering me toward the bed, he gave a soft chuckle. “Don’t be, baby.”

He placed me on my back, center of the mattress. He raised my hands above my head, crossing my arms at the wrists. “Close your eyes, Hollywood. And keep them closed.”

Aching for the site of him undressed, I shut my eyes reluctantly. I heard him moving around, heard the crisp fabric of his shirt as he stripped it away and the rustle of his dress slacks as he stepped from them. He returned to the bed, pulled my right leg toward the right edge of the mattress. Climbing onto the mattress, he pushed my other leg to the opposite edge.

His hands slipped beneath my bottom and pulled me about a foot down the mattress. My pumps still on, he lifted my legs again, hooking the heels on the top edge of the footboard.

Eyes shut, legs spread, my pelvis tilted up, I felt completely exposed but not the least bit vulnerable.

Sam decided to tease me to the point of near madness. His fingertips traced the inside of my legs from my ankles up to the split of my thighs and back down again. Then he stroked the line of my pussy before kneading its plump lips.

“Baby, you’re all wet.” He tugged at the lips, stretched them to let his thumbs massage the edges of my tight hole. “Bright pink and swollen.”

“You know at the center, your legs spread, I could see you were untouched.” He swirled the tip of his finger in my juices. I felt the whisper of the finger’s pad inside me, stroking not at the sides but at some ultra-sensitive shield. “What drove you to make an appointment with Slow Hand Sam?”

My lips pulled back in a grimace. I felt guilty for even having heard him called that, worse yet for contributing to the rumors he had to live with at work. I grimaced, too, because I felt like a freak. What twenty-six year old woman couldn’t orgasm on her own?

“I had never reached climax,” I confessed. “I tried, on my own…you know? But nothing.”

“I’ll help you learn to enjoy your own body, Amber.” He sealed the promise with a kiss against the inside of my left knee. “But first I want to make you come for me. And I want to come with you — in you.”

“I want that, too.” I moaned in agreement. An unrelenting tension already possessed me, one that only Sam could erase. My bottom shifted against the mattress, sliding a little left, then to the right. “Can I open my eyes?”

“Not yet, baby.” His hair brushed my thigh as he lowered his mouth and covered my sex. He sucked at my clit, tugging and slurping at it like he hadn’t had a bite to eat in a week.

At the first lift of my hips, he broke contact, shushing and soothing me with his voice until I lowered my bottom back to the mattress. His big body must have been curled in a tight ball, as close as he was to the footboard, but he brought his mouth even with my throbbing circle of need. His tongue traced its edges and then I felt it flick inside me soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. He was licking that shield, testing its sensitivity.

Shuddering with need, I wrapped my hand around my opposite wrist to keep from reaching down and touching him. I was impatient, wanting to see him, wanting to come again, wanting to come with him.

Sam stopped and blew cold air against my hole. “Soon enough, baby. You only lose it once and I want you drowning in pleasure when it happens.”

He lipped the spine of my clit, gnawed lightly at its tip before sucking it into his mouth. With the pads of his thumbs, he smeared my juices down to that other hole, teasing its opening as his mouth worked the length of my clit.

The tension in my thighs set my lower body to vibrating as I urgently whispered his name. I could feel the swollen flesh of my labia pull up as the muscles deep inside me started to contract. “Sam…oh…”

He eased back, letting my bottom grind against the mattress as his palms caressed my thighs. Only when I quieted again, the threat of my release retreating, did he return to teasing my pussy. More little licks inside me, his tongue sweeping the thin membrane top to bottom. One hand rubbed along the spine of my sex, the pressure of his touch firm and full of promise.

He had me panting, my breasts rising and falling quickly as I fought to get enough air. Reaching up, he found the top edge of my bustier and tugged it down, freeing my breasts so he could pinch and pull at the nipples. Every inch of my body ached with the need to come.

Just when I thought the torture would go on forever, his mouth closed over my clit once more. His suckling alternated between fierce and gentle until it eased to a slow grind that had my hips dancing in circles. My stomach clenched and then every muscle I had squeezed tight. I bucked against him, my mound jerking violent as my climax whipped through my body. I cried out as another wave of released roared through me. My skin felt electric, almost painful but completely alive.

“Now, Sam.” I begged, my voice soft but demanding. “Take me, now. I want you in me. I want to touch you.”

He rose up, ordering me to open my eyes.

Greedy for the sight of him, I obeyed immediately.

Just as quickly, I realized he was right to have me keep my eyes shut. Undressed, he was too glorious to look at and not feel self-conscious — at least when my mind wasn’t clouded with an overdose of pleasure like it was right then. He was also frighteningly large down there, his manhood a darker hued rod almost as big around as my wrist.

Patting along the mattress, he found a small square wrapper and tore it open. He removed a limp disc from it and rolled it down his shaft, the condom only long enough to cover about two-thirds of his length.

“Are you ready for my cock, baby?”

The question of whether any woman was ever ready for something so large inside her flitted through my head but I quickly brushed it aside. I might not have been ready, but I was more than ready to try. I nodded, my hands reaching forward, eager to touch his body.

Supporting his weight on one arm, Sam leaned over me. He unhooked the bustier and tossed it to the side. Then his free hand snaked between our bodies, his fingers stroking my sex until he brought me back to a fevered pitch. Pushing on his cock, he wedged the head against my opening.

Arching his back, he gazed down between us, watching as he slowly pushed against the tight circle of muscles. Nervous, I pushed back.

He chuckled. “That’s not going to work, baby. Try to relax.”

Settling onto his knees, he unhooked my heels from the footboard and slid them off my feet. His palms against the back of my thighs, he pushed my legs up and wider apart. He lifted his ass a little higher, tilting his pelvis so that the fat head of his shaft pointed slightly down.

I felt the muscles stretching, my clit still jerking from my climax. He eased back then pushed again, stretching me a little more. I bit down on a moan, afraid Sam would think he was hurting me.

He looked at my face, his emerald gaze on fire. “Baby, you’re so tight.”

Unable to hold it back, I released the moan. The sound undid him, he gave another push, harder than the first, and broke past my shield. A short cry of surprise escaped me, but I quickly begged him not to stop.

Letting go of my legs, he draped his torso over mine. Propped on one elbow, he stroked my cheek, his sharp gaze studying my face for any sign of distress. Only once he was certain I was okay did he start moving inside me again. I could feel the head of his shaft, so big and unyielding, push deeper. He took a backward stroke and then thrust deeper, the heavy head battering the soft tissues that held it. A lift of his ass had the head retreating, dragging heavily inside me. It hit a sweet spot and I gave a little whimper.

“Right there, baby?”

I nodded, too stunned with pleasure to speak. Sam started to rock his hips left to right, hitting the spot over and over. With a little grunt, I pulled my knees closer to my torso, the sides of my calves pressing against his hips, the back of my heels resting on his muscled ass.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled his mouth to mine, uncharacteristically assertive. I needed to kiss him, needed his tongue to penetrate my mouth with the same raw precision of his cock moving inside me.

Sam took control of the kiss, nibbling around the edges of my mouth, breaking the pattern with little curling licks along the inside of my upper lip. I squeezed at him, the walls of my pussy swelling around his thick cock, ripples of my need rolling along his shaft.

“Amber.” My name roughly slid past his lips and then his mouth fastened on my throat. A few bruising kisses later, he forced his hand between the mattress and my bottom, molding my body against his as he started to take deeper thrusts. “So close, baby.”

I was right there with him, moaning, thrusting, my plump mound and soft belly mashing against his hard angles, my pussy taking his width and length and knotting with the fierce strength of my onrushing climax. Sam pulled back, too big to pop free of my narrow opening, and then he thrust all the way in, his balls slapping against my bottom. Pulling, thrusting, the head hitting bone each time he sank all the way in.

“Come for me, baby. I want to feel that tight pussy sucking at my dick as I unload inside you.”

His words drove me over the edge, my hips seizing for a heartbeat before jerking in release. Still he pounded into me, my tissues swelling to hold him even tighter. I groaned, the apex of my climax nowhere in sight. I trembled in his arms, all control over my body fleeing. I knew then I was his, couldn’t imagine the day I might belong to another.

Above me, Sam froze, his body rigid but for the hard twitch of his cock as he came. My muscles kept twisting, knotting, sucking like he said they would until a hot sizzle of electricity sparked through me and I collapsed onto the mattress.

Sam took a few lazy strokes inside me, wringing another whimper from my lips, and then he rolled onto his side and dragged me with him until we were chest-to-chest.

His hand landed on my bottom and gave it a rough squeeze. “You know what this means, love?”

Love? He called me love! I tried to hide my elation with a casual murmur of “ what? ”

“I’m going to have to talk to your daddy.”

“My father?” I swallowed nervously. How would Sam react when he realized Brandon Rice was my dad?

“I know it’s ass backwards, all things considered,” he answered, his fingers stroking absently at my bottom. “But I can’t properly court you until he and I have talked it out.”

Court me? I buried my face against his shoulder to hide my grin. “What if he says no?”

“Oh, hell.” He chuckled and gave my bottom a light smack. “Tradition only goes so far, baby girl. I’ll court you even if he says I can’t. You mind?”

Snuggling closer to him, I shook my head. “No, I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”

Content

Christa Wick
Slow Hand Curves