Men On Fire. Susan Lyons

pulled it up. He took over, and yanked it off while I went to work on his belt and zipper. Then I shoved his pants down to reveal black boxer briefs that barely confined his erection.

      He looked hot, too, but for me there was no debate: naked was best.

      When I’d removed all his clothing, the pent-up lust and everything else—the way he’d mingled at the picnic, the boy Timothy, his brother Patrick, his grandfather—flooded through me. I launched myself at him, toppling him onto the bed with me atop him. He grabbed my butt with one hand, pulling me against his groin. His other hand tangled in my hair, brought my head down to his; then his mouth captured mine in a long, breathless kiss.

      Mindlessly, frantically, our lips and tongues meshed, our bodies ground against each other. I tasted passion, Coke, a bright copper nip of blood where a tooth had broken skin. His, mine, it didn’t matter.

      One-handed, he released the back clasp of my bra and pulled the garment from between our heated chests. I moaned into his mouth as my sensitive breasts rubbed against his firm pecs, taut nipples, curls of hair, and my nipples tightened.

      The last time we’d had sex, I hadn’t had an opportunity to explore his body. This time would be different. Despite the seductive press of his rigid cock against my belly, I eased away from him, breaking the kiss, and went up on my hands and knees as I straddled him. I blew warm breath across his chest, circled a nipple with my tongue, teased it between my lips, then did the same to the other one. Touching him turned me on, and I felt moisture trickle down my thighs.

      “Turn around,” he said. “Let me get in on the action.”

      He’d get no argument from me. I swung around on the bed and he shifted down so his legs hung off the end, giving me room to straddle him in the opposite direction. When I returned my attention to his nipple, my breasts hung down in his face.

      He gathered them in his hands, then buried his face in them with a muffled, “Oh, Christ.” When he sucked my already budded nipple into his mouth, I moaned approval. This man knew exactly how to touch me. How to stoke the sparky fire of arousal.

      As I worked my way down his body, he lavished attention on my breasts until he could no longer reach them. But I didn’t care, because now I was focused on his cock. It rose up his belly, full and heavy, the epitome of male virility. The heady, musky scent of his arousal filled my nostrils as I explored the crown with my tongue, lapping the resilient velvety skin.

      The sight and scent of him was so erotic, my pussy pulsed with the need to feel him.

      Instead, I gave my mouth that pleasure. Opening wide, I wrapped my lips around him, took him in, and bathed him in wet heat. He groaned as I alternately sucked on him and ran my tongue around his crown. Bracing myself on one arm, I slicked saliva down his shaft, circled him with my fingers, stroked gently, all the time keeping up the mouth action.

      “Oh, yeah, Jade.” His hips rose, encouraging me but not forcing himself deeper than I could take him. I pumped harder, watching my hand at work. His skin was a couple shades lighter than mine; his thick pubic hair was shiny and black in the sunlight.

      The sunshine, the fresh breeze through the open window, the occasional gentle rocking of the boat all intensified the sensuality and immediacy of the experience.

      Then Quinn grasped my hips and pulled me down to his face. My sex was soaked with the dew of arousal and he lapped it up, tongue firm against my tender flesh, each stroke building the need that was coiling inside me, so I quivered and pressed myself against him.

      He gave me what I craved, sliding a couple of fingers inside me, then a third. It was so sexy, having his cock in my mouth and hands while fingers stroked me deep inside, his tongue teased my swollen flesh, his thumb—oh, God—toyed with my clit. So many blissful sensations, I couldn’t separate them, they mixed together in one giant spiral of arousal, of cresting climax.

      As my own excitement built, I pumped him harder, squeezed the head of his cock between my lips, licked up pre-come even as I panted with excitement. The feel and taste of him made something deep inside me clutch with primal recognition.

      His cock jerked, his rough finger stroked my G-spot, my body clutched again and then orgasm surged through me, making my whole body shudder and quake.

      Quinn let go, too, in spasms of salty come that I swallowed one after the other.

      When he was done, when I was done, I eased away from him, body trembling, and collapsed on the bed. “Oh my God.”

      “Yeah.” He pushed himself up the bed to lie beside me. “Christ, that was good.”

      Neither of us moved or said another word for a few minutes. Then he shoved pillows behind his back, sat up, and took a long swallow of Coke. “Maybe an afternoon of frustration is worth it, if that’s the payoff.” He held my wineglass out.

      I sat up, too, and sipped wine. “Anticipation’s not a bad thing.”

      He tucked his arm around my shoulders and I moved into the curve of his body. Sunlight fell across our legs, the soft breeze brought the scent of ocean to mingle with the musk of sex, and I felt sublimely content. We chatted about his gramps, my family, his boat, my job, getting to know each other. Not a single write-off flag arose. As I basked in the glow of great sex and easy conversation, I felt an affection and intimacy that were new to me.

      The sun slipped away and Quinn glanced at his alarm clock. “Damn, it’s later than I thought. I have to get ready for work.” He dropped a kiss on my lips, then slid out of bed.

      Reality rushed back and I jerked upright. What had I been thinking? There was one very good reason Quinn was a write-off: he was a firefighter, an adrenaline junkie. I couldn’t get dreamy about a man who put his life at risk, who could cause me the kind of heartache I’d suffered when Papa almost died.

      Back to my priorities, and our business. He’d left the cabin, giving me a brief but tantalizing rear view, and water ran in the little bathroom. “We should talk about which Triple-F event you can attend next,” I called out.

      His head popped round the door. “Come sailing with me.”

      “Sailing? What does that have to do with Triple-F?” I climbed out of bed and sorted out the tangle of discarded clothing.

      He returned and opened a cupboard. “We can talk about the event when we’re sailing.” Underwear, jeans, and a gray T-shirt landed on the bed.

      “I’ve never sailed. It’s dangerous.”

      “Driving a car is dangerous. Unless you know what you’re doing.”

      “Everyone drives. Not everyone sails. Look, I’m not into doing risky things.”

      “Huh?” He paused in the act of pulling on jeans.

      “You and I are different.” I pulled my shirt over my head and crossed my arms. “I’m cautious, and you’re an adrenaline junkie who like things like sailing and windsurfing, and you’re a firefighter.”

      “You’re dumping on my hobbies and my job?”

      “I’m not dumping. Just saying—”

      “What?”

      I bit my lip. “It was silly. I was going to say, I’d never get involved with a guy who did dangerous things. But of course we’re not involved, it’s just the Triple-F thing and the, uh, sex.” And despite my postsex daydreaming, that’s all I’d ever let it be.

      He was pulling on his T-shirt. When his head emerged, he said, “We’re doing your work thing and we’re having sex, but we’re not involved? Look, like I said before, I’m not going down on one knee and proposing, but d’you have to categorize things so strictly? Can’t we just hang out, date, see where things go?”

      “No.” I ran my hands through my mass of unruly hair and wondered where he’d tossed the pins he’d removed. “That’s what I was doing before, with guys. Now I want to get married. I need to focus and not waste time.”