Getting Naughty. Avril Tremayne

into his eyes and lost herself for a moment in the bright, clear blue of them. A blue so pure she could almost believe he belonged nowhere else, only here, under a cloudless Sydney sky.

      How long did they stare at each other? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know she’d laid her palm against his cheek until she felt a twitch beneath it—just a tiny tic.

      She lowered her eyes to his mouth and found that its perfection was marred by a small white scar at the outer right edge of his top lip. Scars. Everyone had them, but she, of all people, knew you sometimes had to look close, or deep, or even all the way through a person, to see them. He’d bitten at that mark, when he’d agreed to let her kiss him, and that already told her something: that being not quite perfect bothered him. And because of that, the almost undetectable scar made him more perfect to her, more perfect for her.

      The rest of him was immaculate. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, symmetrical features. His hair was expertly cut, thick and neat, dark blond streaked with wheat. His eyebrows and lashes were a burnished deep gold. He was delicious summer to her—the beach colors of him, the heady promise of warmth and sun-touched skin and luminous light. So dazzlingly handsome, she was slow to become aware of other things about his body that had nothing to do with bright days, but everything of urgent nights. The leashed power in his arms, the rock-hard strength of his tensed thighs beneath her bottom, the implacable erection against her hip...

      She’d never been more conscious of her near-nakedness—which was saying something since she danced in her underwear for an audience four nights a week—and the thought of him touching her skin made her more excited than she could ever remember being. She had to do this right. Had to. She didn’t care what it was that had wedged open a chink in his armor—rebound, jealousy, pique, a need to prove something or to be someone else—but she knew this moment was vital. “Ready?” she asked.

      “Yes,” he breathed out, and she slowly, slowly brought her face close and rested her mouth on his. She closed her eyes, waiting through the first thrill, savoring the moment—not just the feel of his firm lips but the way his arms tightened around her. She tried to catalog all the sensations swirling inside her, wanting the memory to be embedded deep. The air still with the heavy warmth that foretold a slide from pleasantness to heat within the next few hours. The faint green scent of her plant border mingling with the tang of salt in the air and his understated vetiver aftershave—earthy, grassy, smoky. The occasional squawk of a seagull and faint whooshing of waves hitting the sand at nearby Bondi Beach. His heart, beating fast like hers. His cock, straining in his jeans, the presence of it getting her from damp to wet with astonishing ease.

      Oh, Teague, she said in her head, because she needed to hear his name somewhere in this moment and she dared not say it aloud in case he came to his senses, and his lips parted as though accepting it from her.

      She tasted whiskey as he licked at her lips, and the world swung like a flickering lantern in a storm. Men liked her mouth—the shape, the pout—but from Teague she wanted more. Teague she needed to actively lust for it, so although she wanted to take her own pleasure, she forced herself to stay pliant for him, letting him take and test and do what he wanted.

      His arms were tightening, then loosening, then tightening as he shifted beneath her, like he was searching for control. She knew what he was going through—but she also knew the cure was to be found in going further than a kiss. His hands went to her hair, gripping tight to hold her still as he moved from licking to sucking at her mouth, even as he continued to move restlessly beneath her. She wished she could take him inside her right that second, because she could feel how good it would be.

      And then suddenly, she was straddling him, but she had no idea how he’d repositioned her without disconnecting his mouth from hers. Magic again. A magic that spoke of experience as unexpected as the size of his cock, which was obvious now her legs were on either side of him. She could feel herself swelling for him, her clitoris pulsing so insistently she wanted to put her fingers there to relieve the pressure. She loved the restraint that kept him from rushing onward, craved it, even...and yet the challenge was there: to make him lose it. But hadn’t that always been the lure of Teague?

      Slowly, she opened her mouth—an invitation to enter. He neither hesitated nor plunged, simply fitted his mouth to hers and let himself take what she offered. Thrilling, to both control the action and be with someone who had such control over himself. Even as one of his hands left her hair to slide the robe off one of her shoulders, he moved slowly and deliberately, kissing more deeply. She felt her breast come free of the silk, and then his hand was cupping her, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her hard nipple. God, how did he know the exact level of pressure to make the pleasure so wickedly intense?

      Lick me there, she begged, but only in her head because this was no time for spoken words, only for what he would do unasked. Please, Teague, please.

      Again, he seemed to hear that silent plea, because his mouth left hers and he trailed his lips, his tongue, over her chin, down her neck, across to her breast, all the way to the tip, where he licked...and kept licking.

      She looked down, wanting to see his hand holding her breast, his head where she’d imagined it so many times, his tongue rasping over her. A whimper escaped, then another. She couldn’t seem to stop her hips from moving back and forth, urging him on. Not that she wanted to divert him from what he was doing—she wanted whatever was happening to unravel at whatever pace he set. She’d been waiting for this man for so, so long, and he was so good at this, at making her wild and keeping her leashed.

      She felt a tug at her robe again, the other shoulder, and then her robe slid down in a silken fall around her waist, held in place by a ribbon tie she wished would spontaneously break so he could see all of her.

      But he was wholly preoccupied with touch and taste as he cradled her breasts in his hands, alternating his licking tongue with one tapping fingertip over her nipples. So methodical—the soft tap, the steady lap. Better than she’d dreamed. Because of what he was doing or because it was him doing it? She didn’t know. And she didn’t care, as long as he kept going.

      She pulled her arms free of the robe, raising her hands to his head, his hair, not to pull him closer but to just...touch. She imagined removing his clothes with the same patience he was lavishing on her breasts. Unbuttoning his shirt, sliding down the zipper of his jeans, stringing out the reveal. The thought of seeing him naked, of touching his skin, of tasting him, made her want to beg him to let her at him. His name trembled on her lips, but just as she would have said it, he changed the pressure of his tongue and her breath caught hard.

      Oh, God! Dear God! Everything inside her was going haywire, crackling and surging. Her breathing was suddenly chaotic. Shallow pants and gasps. She was trembling, her hands tightening in his hair, and—Oh! Oh, oh, oh! She wanted to catch it, whatever it was that was spiraling inside her. But she couldn’t. It was fast, like quicksilver, elusive, but building, expanding. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. But it was, the spiral expanding to a whirlwind, faster, faster, stronger, God, God, God.

      “Ahhhh!” The sound burst out of her as the vibration of her orgasm rocked her from her nipples all the way down to the core of her jammed over his cock. “Teague!” she cried, and it was somehow shocking to hear her voice, his name vibrating in the air, and realize that everything that had happened since she’d sat on his lap had happened in silence. Shocking...and so sexy.

      His hands tightened on her breasts—the only sign that he’d heard that impassioned plea of hers—but the pressure of his tongue remained constant, over, over, over, feasting on her as she rocked on his lap and keened out his name again, and at last she slumped, her limbs loose, her head flung back, her hands slipping from his hair.

      Did he realize what he’d just done to her? It had never, ever happened like this before. She wouldn’t have believed it was possible to orgasm from a man doing nothing more than using his fingers and tongue on her nipples while she sat on his lap. And now she wanted more, because if he could do that to her so effortlessly, what would happen when he brought that exquisite patience into play between her legs? When he eased into her, when he took her? Oh, God, how she wanted him