Full Throttle (Fast Track #7)(49)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Not yet, baby. Let me make you come first. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

With any other man she would have given a flippant response. A casually tossed “Duh” or the equivalent. But she wasn’t even tempted to be snarky with Rhett. It would be, well, disrespectful. So she said simply, “Yes.”

He kissed her neck and it caused goose bumps to rise all over her arms. She was lost to him, and she knew it. When he guided her back to the bed, she let him lay her out and she waited, in a sort of warm and squishy state of anticipation as he stripped her jeans off, followed by her panties. There was no rush on his part, no rough jerking of clothes, just a steady progress, the drive on his face clear. He was a man who focused on one thing at a time, she had learned. He didn’t start something and not finish it. He didn’t talk to her while scrolling through his cell phone checking e-mail and social networking sites. He didn’t watch TV and jump up at every commercial to do a chore the way she did.

One thing at a time, that was Rhett. He focused on a task until it was completed, and right now, his goal was to pleasure her.

He was achieving it. Shawn moaned in abandonment when he pulled her thighs apart with a firm grip and went at her with his tongue. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but it was something about the steady rhythmic, yet erratic, movements that kept her guessing, unsure of where his flickering heat would land, that had her gripping the sheet, terrified that he would stop. She had always enjoyed o**l s*x, had never been particularly shy about receiving it, but with Rhett, it was more than simple enjoyment. It was clawing, agonizing and desperate. It was base, primal. Wet.

But then he pulled back and wiped his mouth, breathing almost as hard as she was as he paused to stare at her sex, a finger absently trailing over her inner moisture.

It was on her lips to ask what the hell he was doing, her thighs quivering from the tension she was putting on them, when she remembered the rules. She wasn’t supposed to ask questions. If she did, he wouldn’t finish this. He wouldn’t let her orgasm.

That, too, turned her on. The thought that he understood her body, her needs, better than she did. If it were up to her, she would come in the first five minutes, let him pump her for another three, then hit the showers, the edge taken off. But that really denied herself the intensity of pleasure that came from extended foreplay, that came from Rhett teasing and denying her.

It almost brought greater intimacy between them. She had engaged in sex by rote with Sam, a familiar choreography of clothes off, kisses, a few hot touches on each other’s erogenous zones, then in and out. Sleepwalking sex.

This was so much more, it wasn’t even on the same plane of existence.

She wanted to beg Rhett.

She wanted to grab his head and bury him in her.

She wanted to cry out that she was empty and she wanted him. She needed him.

But instead, she reached over and grabbed the pillow and buried her face in it so she wouldn’t be tempted to cry out.

He didn’t allow it. He tore the pillow from her and threw it against the wall. “Say what you need to say. It’s okay. I want to hear it.”

“Please,” she whimpered, and her voice sounded ragged and strange to her ears. “Don’t stop, please. Oh, please, don’t stop.”

“Put your ankles over my shoulders,” he told her.

She did, without question, assuming he was going to plow into her with his cock. She welcomed the thought, wanted something to ease the deep ache. But that wasn’t his plan. Instead, he slid his hands under her ass and lifted her clear off the bed, right up to his mouth.

“Oh, God!” she cried out when he made hot contact with his tongue on her clitoris.

The assault continued until she was twisting her head back and forth, fingers numb from her frantic grip on the sheet, skin crawling with goose bumps. “Rhett,” she whispered, all the blood rushing to her head, her leg and butt muscles tensed from the position, her agonized ecstasy rendering her incoherent. She had something to say, only she didn’t know what it was.

He lifted his mouth and looked down at her, his head framed by her thighs. “Say my name again,” he told her urgently. “Scream it.”

“Rhett,” she said, struggling to keep her eyes open. “Oh!” she said involuntarily, when he plunged his tongue into her again.

His movements stopped and she whimpered.

“Louder.”

“Rhett!” she called out, the name half plea, half question. It sounded electric to her, ringing in the quiet room, an embarrassing burst of her succumbing to him, to the needs of her body.

But it clearly wasn’t that loud, because he lifted his mouth again and used one finger to pinch her ass cheek. “Say it like you mean it. Don’t be ashamed, Shawn. Scream for me.”

So she did. She let go of everything inside her and screamed over and over while he worked her. She came with his name on her lips, echoing in the room around them, her throat going hoarse, her pleasure transcending her body, dragging everything out of her.

And when he levered her legs down onto the bed, still tasting her, as the last strains of tight fulfillment were wrung from her, Shawn blinked, her eyes, her mouth, her heart all open to him, frozen in the profound moment of pure abandonment.

Rhett undid his jeans, watching her with a predatory expression as he voiced his approval. “That was perfect. You’re perfect.”

She was stunned, tremors still rippling through her.

 • • •

STANDING up so he could shove his jeans and briefs off, Rhett stared down at Shawn, her br**sts heaving, her cheeks pink, skin dewy from exertion. Her fingers were fluttering upward, reaching for him, but on the bed, like she wasn’t even aware of what she was doing. She looked like she was in shock.

He felt a little that way himself. Something had happened to him when he had listened to Shawn scream his name, with the tangy taste of her on his tongue, legs wrapped around him. Something had shifted, and he didn’t know what it was. He only knew that he had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her, that he had never known the kind of satisfaction he had felt when she had opened her throat and cried out her need, her pleasure.

His tongue was thick, his c**k hard to the point of painful, his control hanging on by the merest of threads.

If she touched him, if he felt the feathery, soft touch of her fingers on his back, if her milky thighs wrapped around him, he wasn’t going to be able to contain himself. He was going to lose it in her, and he needed a second.