Free Shimmer by Darynda Jones Page B

his clothes and shred them with a rototiller. I gathered my composure. Focused. And with the grace and dignity of a diplomat, I reached forward to unbutton his jeans. Only a diplomat probably wouldn’t do that.
    Unable to keep the trembling that had started in my knees from traveling to my hands, I unfastened the button. He kept his gaze trained on me, allowing me my leisure as I slowly led the zipper down. It didn’t matter how many times I touched him, the visceral thrill that spiked in my core every time my skin brushed across his leapt inside me. Especially when that skin was so intimately placed.
    The outline of his erection was unmistakable beneath his boxers. The gift I’d bought him long forgotten, I crawled onto his lap, leaned forward until our mouths almost touched, until the scent of liqueur mingled with my breath, then reached beneath his waistband and encircled his marble hard erection with my fingers, their tips not quite able to touch.
    I heard the glass slip from his grasp. It dropped onto the thick carpet with a thud as I released him from the confines of his jeans, lowered myself to the floor, and took him into my mouth. He sucked in a soft breath, his muscles jerking as he took a handful of my hair to slow my attack, to control my rhythm. I felt a rush of his blood across my tongue as he hardened even further. Ignoring his iron grip, I swallowed every inch of him, pulled back, waited an agonizing heartbeat, then swallowed him again.
    He threw back his head, his hips coming off the sofa as I worked. “Dutch,” he said through clenched teeth, as though in warning. As though in anguish.
    But the heat in my abdomen had burst into flames. His touch alone could bring me to the brink of orgasm. I felt the same rush of pleasure that he did. The same nuclear heat wave. He plunged his other hand into my hair, pushed me off his erection, then roughly pulled me up until I was laying against his chest. I thought he would take a moment to recuperate, but he ripped at the fasteners on my jeans and pushed them down over my ass. I felt goose bumps erupt as cool air hit my exposed skin.
    In a move as smooth as glass, he peeled my jeans and panties off completely, braced a hand on either side of my hips, and lifted me into a straddling position, allowing his mouth access to the most sensitive area on my body.
    The moment his tongue brushed across my clit, I sucked in a sharp breath. A wildfire ignited between my legs, causing a liquid heat to spread through every molecule in my body. I braced my hands on the sofa for balance, though I hardly needed to. He was holding me over him, suspending my weight as though it were nothing, dipping me closer when he wanted to suck harder, easing me back when he wanted to feather soft strokes over my swollen flesh. Every brush of his tongue whipped the molten lava inside me, churned it until it reached a fever pitch.
    I was about to come. I felt it rocketing toward me, but I wanted him inside me when I did. I wanted his own orgasm to crest with mine. But he had zero intention of letting me go. I had to fight my way off him, clawing at his wrists, pulling at his fingers. Once I was straddling his chest, I leaned over and grabbed handfuls of his hair. With my mouth at his ear, I whispered, “I want you to bury your cock inside me. I want to feel the earth quake when you come.”  
    He groaned and obeyed without hesitation. He pulled me into his arms and rolled us over until he was on top. In one, quick movement he plunged inside me. I was more than wet enough to make his entrance easy, and the instant spike in pleasure with the pressure of his erection made me gasp aloud.
    He held his position, buried to the hilt, but only for a moment, only long enough to give me time to adjust to his size before he pulled back and plunged in again. I cried out, but he didn’t offer me quarter a second time. His thrusts grew increasingly quicker, increasingly harder as he milked me closer and closer