Free Girl Gear 6: Indiscreet by Alison Kent Page B

her lips on his spine, kissing him softly, tasting his skin while making circles with the tip of her tongue. She moved her hands ever so slowly down his abdomen, teasing him by never reaching beneath his clothing, though he lifted his hips and urged her to do so.
    She couldn’t wait to take his penis into her hands, to stroke the thick shaft, to marvel over the softness of the mushroomed head, to absorb the warmth that always seemed on the verge of burning her hands. But there was so much more of his body to be cherished first.
    “Take off your boots,” she ordered, and he bent to unlace and remove them. She kicked off her own pumps, losing two inches to him.
    “Now your pants,” she added, once he’d straightened. She swore she heard a dangerous chuckle as he stripped. The sound served to tighten her tautly strung nerves even further, to heighten the room’s tension until the air became hard to breathe.
    He stood, braced his hands on the window frame again as if needing the solid hold to keep from falling. Or to keep from letting go all the truths and emotions he kept bound tightly inside.
    Determined to break through before letting him go, she shimmied out of her pants and kicked the black linen across the floor along with her black lace panties, tickled at her ability to mistreat her expensive clothes.
    Patrick Coffey was a very bad influence, and she wouldn’t have him any other way.
    Starting at his shoulders, she drew her fingertips down his back to his buttocks, and then down farther, skimming her palms over the backs of his thighs as far as her reach allowed. Her own skin prickled with gooseflesh; the room was cool, but the reaction was strictly due to Patrick’s heat. The temperature contrast added an extreme dimension to the sensory stimulation that consumed her.
    Slipping her hands around to the front of his thighs, she tickled and teased her way back up his body, brushing her fingers only briefly through the thicket of hair at his crotch. He growled, thrusting his hips forward and keeping his hands where they were on the windowsill, accepting her challenge to wait.
    This was what she enjoyed most about sex with Patrick. His patience outlasted even hers, as did his endurance, making for a wicked combination in bed. She played across the ripples of his abdomen, tugging at the hair that grew beneath his navel, drawing ever-expanding circles out toward his hipbones.
    And then she dropped to her knees. While her hands ran down his thighs, she bit at the firm flesh of his backside, healing the light nips with tender kisses and wetswirls of her tongue. He clenched his buttocks, relaxed again once he realized she’d stopped.
    “I hate it when you do that,” he whispered gruffly, even as he spread his legs wider to give her better access.
    She slipped a hand between his legs and cupped his tight balls from behind. “You’re lying to both of us, Patrick.”
    “Yeah,” he admitted with a shudder. “I know. It’s just a guy thing. You’re getting too close to the goods.”
    “And you love it.” She pulled her hand from his balls and ran it along the ridge of hard flesh behind, skimming over the “goods,” as he put it, until his shiver reached his knees.
    Nothing gave her greater satisfaction than knowing she affected him so. A heady thing, this power, and she was wet with it, wet with wanting him, wet with the thrill of the wait.
    Nipping again at the curve of his ass, she wrapped one arm around his thigh, slipped the other back between his spread legs and closed both hands around his engorged shaft. She held him tight and he stood still, his muscles rigid, his skin so hot it grew damp.
    She held him until she thought his body might snap, until a bead of sweat dropped from his forehead to her wrist. Only then did she begin to stroke, using the release of moisture from the slit in the tip of his cock to ease the slide of her hands. He thrust into her grip, and she pushed her forearm up between his legs,