High Heels & Bicycle Wheels. Jane LinfootЧитать онлайн книгу.
and massive back-pedalling called for.
‘Fine by me.’ He let out a mental whistle of relief for the fact she hadn’t ruled out the sex. ‘You know what? I’m going to sit right on here, and we’ll take it from there, okay? Anything goes, apart from bed.’
Easing down next to her. No sudden movements in case she ran. Happy to play it her way. Raising his arms, he stretched back on the sofa, feeling her gaze already locked onto the bulge of his erection. Leaving it up to her, the bang of his heart reverberating through the sofa. Waiting. Knowing, from the dark dilation of her pupils behind her faltering eyelashes, she wouldn’t be resisting for long.
Too right.
One hand, inching across the sofa, winding under his t-shirt, sending his pulse rate off the scale in anticipation. One finger, achingly slow, tracing the line of hair down from his navel. Then the full-blown twang of her palm hitting his shaft, almost making him lift off.
Shifting a little, he snatched his breath at the agonising pleasure hit.
‘All ready then…’ More of a statement than a question, her voice all husky now.
His mouth was dry with anticipation. ‘Whenever you are…’
His fingertips closed on the condom in his pocket. Taking his mind off the excruciating wait. Thinking slow, thinking moody, thinking maybe they should lower the lights to go with the smoulder.
So wrong.
Wham. One leap, she jumped to standing. A bob, and a kick, her joggers hit the coffee table, and he was staring at thighs, lush, tanned, taut. And the teensiest triangle of a thong. Midnight-blue silk. Made his mouth water. Those perfect russet nails feathering on the hem of her top. He swallowed. Bit his lip to stop himself grabbing hold of her, dragged in a breath to get control. Wham again.
One twist, and she was out of her top. Aware of his jaw hitting the floor as he locked onto her breasts, bursting over the silky balcony of her bra cups. He closed his sweating fingers around the edge of the sofa cushions, preparing for the white-knuckle ride of his life.
She flicked her hair out of her eyes, accidentally brushing his knee as she strode across him, to plant one leg either side of his calves. The deepening of her cleavage cranked his already bursting erection up another notch, as she bent to grasp his slouch pants. One excruciating tug from her, he was kicking his pants away and free to rise. His sudden view of the incredible size of what he had to offer knocked his arousal further into orbit.
‘Oh, my.’ Her breathy gasp of appreciation was low against the roaring of his blood through his ears.
Bryony, fist covering the sensuous pucker of her mouth, chest heaving, hesitated. Legs wide, eyes bleary, no doubt working on her next move. Shifting his pelvis, he tightened his grip on the cushions. Dying to touch her, exploding for her to touch him, he watched the hairs escaping where the thong cut into the delicious crease between her legs. Counting to ten. He got as far as eight. In one fluid movement she whipped off her thong, and snapped it around the end of him. Heaven. Sliding, teasing, tugging. Aching amazing heaven.
‘Stop.’ Releasing his fingers, he grasped her wrist.
‘Not good?
He shook his head. ‘Too good, too much.’ Stone chips in his throat. ‘I won’t last if you do that.’
Lasting? That just went out the window. He watched her tongue slide over her lips.
‘You could try sitting on me?’ Just an idea, he tossed out.
‘Maybe I will.’ The trembling of her torso the only giveaway that she wasn’t completely in control.
Climbing onto the sofa, placing one foot either side of him, the scent of hot sex engulfing him as she lowered herself to crouch over him. Natural blonde too. His stomach gyrated as her legs opened.
One moment to sheathe himself, then reaching up, he slipped her bra cups down, to leave her breasts jutting gloriously above his head.
‘Hands away!’ Shooting him a blurry half-smile, she pushed his wrist, pinned his hand back onto the sofa. ‘No touching. It’s more fun. Just this once.’
Not even minding she was bossing him around, as she nudged down onto the tip of him. One high-voltage zap. Wet, slick, sticky. Plunging deep, he groaned, as she impaled herself on his length. Then, as she dipped forward, her breast grazed his cheek. Opening his mouth, he captured the nipple she offered. Clamped it between his lips, ravaging with his tongue as she weakened against him, mewing. The throb of his penis excruciating as her muscles clamped onto him. Gently placing a hand each side of her hips to slide her up and down the tower of his erection.
Slowly at first. Aching to hang on here, vibrating to burst into her. Then building as she took over. Riding him, tearing at his shoulders, pounding as she thrashed above him, moaning as she writhed. Grinding him, milking him, extracting her pleasure, her eyes half closed, her half-smile merged onto a moan that sent him into orbit.
‘Coming…’
One sharp cry as she rose, threw back her head, and screwed her pelvis hard down on him. The view of her breasts jutting above him, disintegrated as his final thrust came. One huge surge of ecstatic acceleration propelled him, and his world shattered as he shot into her with the force of a tidal wave.
So, there had been a sea change in Scarborough in Bryony’s head, but it was taking some getting used to. The whole cringing memory of losing her virginity was now eclipsed by another. One scorching hot encounter with Jackson Gale. A decade’s worth of sexual pleasure crammed into one crazy night. Her skin came out in white-hot goosebumps whenever she thought about it, not to mention the tender bit between her legs – knickers sticky wet every time she remembered. Knees buckling a bit even now, as she pushed open the door of her flat to hear the landline ring off.
It was good to be back. The creak of the floorboard just inside the door, the single scuff mark on the white wall where Cressy fell over when they were moving the new TV in, were all reassuringly concrete and familiar. Hopefully, she’d left all things Jackson Gale right back in Yorkshire.
She suppressed a shudder.
Crazy was the only word for it.
Bryony Marshall. Getting down and dirty? And oh, how dirty! A one-night stand, with arguably the most arrogant man on the planet. And the most sexually gifted. Sexually gifted? What was she thinking? Still reeling at the shock, obviously, if her brain was throwing up phrases like that.
Eight hours of personality transplant… How else did you explain a night that began with an explosive clinch on a terrace, ended with a sizzling coupling in the shower just before he left, and visited all places ecstasy in between? For a woman who didn’t do dating, it was off the wall. For a woman who rarely had any sex at all, let alone sizzling hot, raw, rip-the-roof-off sex, it was unbelievable. Inexcusable. She shuddered every time yet another graphic image flipped into her brain. Had she really…? Unfortunately, yes. She had. And with every flickering image she was simultaneously horrified, shocked and appalled all over again. Embarrassing didn’t begin to cover it. In fact, nothing much was covered. That was the whole trouble. Lucky then that she hadn’t been working this week because no way would her mind have been on the job.
As it was, a few days visiting girl-friends had provided the space for reflection, even if it did mean she was mentally absent from the catch-up conversation a lot of the time. Frankly, a little jarring too to see mental flashes of a naked Jackson in all his animal glory whilst she moseyed around kitchens, playgroups, and school gates with first Claire, then Cat, then Jess, her three settled best friends, busily absorbed in their happy-ever-afters.
She was always slightly ambivalent about visiting her settled friends. One by one, they’d all got their grown up lives together, leaving her lagging, woefully far behind. She often