Making Him Sweat & Taking Him Down. Meg MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.
behind it.
“Jenna.”
There was a rasp to his voice, the same gruffness she imagined might possess him as he stepped into a ring. Damn, she was objectifying him again. But she’d never moved this fast with a guy before, and he was the perfect man—the perfect body—to be reckless with. Whatever they had, it was bigger than either of them.
Charged with lust, she tugged until he peeled his shirt away. With a coaxing push, he rolled onto his back. Jenna slung a leg over his waist to straddle him. She couldn’t get close enough to this man.
He swore, hands flying to her hips to hold their bodies tight, center to center. She pulled her camisole up and off. They were bathed in yellowy streetlight, harsh and gritty and urban, just like the man beneath her. The honk of a car horn, the screech of brakes, the quarreling of strangers below on the sidewalk…bring it on. Whatever happened, she wanted the quintessential Boston experience, as brash and unapologetic as this fling.
Mercer’s hands slid up her belly to her breasts, kneading as she undulated her hips, torturing them both with the friction through her damnable pajama bottoms.
“Let your hair down,” he said.
She tugged the elastic from her ponytail.
“Jesus, you’re sexy.”
And you’re extraordinary, she wanted to tell him, as she memorized every exceptional, intimidating contour of his bare body. She missed his hand wraps, even fantasized what those padded gym mats would feel like under her back… There she went again, with the fetish she hadn’t even known she had.
“Take those frigging pants off, for the love of Christ.” He tugged at the drawstring and she rolled to the side, both of them fighting to be the one to strip them away. No man had ever made her feel this wanted before, as if he couldn’t control himself, nor had any man made her feel the same in return. A need this fierce and primal.
He climbed on top of her, shoved his knees beneath her thighs and ground their bodies together, just slightly too rough for comfort, just exactly perfect. His breaths became grunts, so like the noises she’d heard him make when he was working out. She scraped her nails down his side, angling her hips and welcoming the rough drag of his hard cock against her soft folds. He tilted his hips back, letting her feel the insistent press of his head between her legs, the thin barriers of cotton as maddening as a straightjacket.
“This is such a stupid idea,” Mercer said, sounding happy about it.
“I know.” She got lost staring at his torso, at the explicit flex of his chest and abs as he rubbed his erection against her. All this plus an even more enticing sight, if she chose to make use of that all-access pass she’d tucked beneath the pillow. With another man, she’d have said no, save it for the next date, savor the baby steps. But this might be—this should be—the only night she and Mercer made this mistake together. If she was going to binge, no point stopping at a slice; she’d eat the whole damn cake.
She pushed at his chest. “Get your shorts off.”
She joined him, both of them sitting up and wrestling away their underwear. Then he was on her again, the hot press of his bare cock against her thigh tightening her like a spring.
“Mercer.”
A groan answered her as he fumbled his hand between their bodies, centering his shaft along her lips. She was beyond ready, and with one, two, three strokes he was slick from her, their friction wet and dangerous and hotter than the best sex she’d ever had. He clasped her knees, gaze locked on the action happening between them. That fascinating face looked strained and fierce, lips parted. He was intriguing at rest, handsome when he smiled. But this…this was the only expression she ever wanted to see him wearing. Only one look could possibly thrill her more, and that would be the one he wore when he slid inside her.
She shoved her arm under the pillow, and the crinkle of the plastic snapped his attention to her hand.
She ripped open the condom and he took it from her, leaning back to roll it down his length. He was a bigger man than she’d had before, but the intimidation was fleeting. Before she could take a final, bracing breath, he was at her entrance. No asking, “Are you ready?” No caution. No resistance or protest from her body as he pushed inside, so deep their hips touched.
He swore again, and she dragged her nails down his ribs and sides. Even in the sickly ambient light she could see the red stripes that rose on his skin.
With a groan he braced his arms at her sides, thighs nudging hers wider, and began to thrust. She wrapped her legs around his waist, angled her hips to welcome him as deep as she could. She’d never felt this need before, this urgent craving to be possessed by someone. He was surely wrecking her for every slender, deferring academic who might come after, wrecking her entire perception of what her “type” was.
“You feel amazing.” His eyes were shut, as though he wanted nothing distracting him from the sensation.
“So do you.” He felt exactly as he should—big, rough, forceful. She watched his body owning hers, her pleasure mounting.
His eyes opened. “You need anything special? To get off?”
Not exactly poetry, but his words encapsulated what this was, a mutual itch-scratching, two animals taking what they wanted from each other.
“My clit.”
Mercer leaned back on his haunches, slowing his thrusts, catching his breath. When it seemed the madness had left him, he put his palm to her mound, thumb on her clitoris. “Tell me how,” he said, starting to rub.
“Lighter. And faster.”
He followed her instructions perfectly, the rough pad of his thumb stroking her even better than she could do herself. And it went far beyond the touch—it was the sight of his body, the smell of him, the slap of his skin against hers. The least romantic, most frantic sex of her life. And it blew every slow, candlelit seduction clear out of the water.
He felt right. So right it scared her.
As she edged closer to release, she fantasized about how he would be when he neared the finish himself. Fast. Fast and vocal. Picturing it had her speeding toward orgasm, imagining his face, mean and needy. She swore as the first spasm struck, grasped his arm and neck and held on, riding the pleasure until it turned to pain, his thumb against her clit too much to take. She pulled his hand away, panting and dizzy.
“Jesus, Jenna.” He surprised her then. He kept his hips still, dropping to his elbows to slide his hands beneath her back, kissing her neck and jaw as she caught her breath.
She cleared her throat. “You were right. You’re even better at sex than you are at kissing.”
He made a satisfied, happy noise against her throat, then rose on straight arms and looked her in the eyes.
She stroked his arms. “Your turn. What do you need?”
He laughed. “About eight seconds of your time, I suspect.”
“What would you like, then?”
“To make you do some work.”
“You’re on.”
He slid out and they switched positions, Mercer piling three pillows at the head of the bed so that as he lay down, he was only half-reclined. He put his hands to his hips. “C’mere.”
She straddled him, welcoming his hard heat back inside her body. He couldn’t ever be deep enough, close enough.
He brought his knees up, cradling her in his lap. Bracing her hands against the wall, she found her rhythm, thrilling at his grunts and groans and the way his eyes seemed to record everything she was doing. She paused as he unhooked her bra, then she slipped it off for him. As she began to move again, he put his hands to her breasts, not holding them, merely letting her nipples brush his palms with each roll of her hips. She could feel her excitement mounting all over again, from his