Free Abandon The Night by Joss Ware Page B

towel and grabbed him by the arm. And tugged.
    He went.
    The next thing he knew, Quent was in the steamy shower, his hands full of warm, sleek woman, his clothes plastered to him in places—and stone dry in others—as the shower beat on them. She was tall and warm and strong, pulling him up against her, twining a leg between his, and he let himself go.
    Hot, wet mouths, tongues dancing and tangling—there was nothing of the coy here, nothing of the restrained. They starved, they wanted and took from each other, hands battling to have the right of way, hers tearing at the buttons of his shirt then sliding under it, over his chest…his filling with her breasts, her ass, her hips and the low, sweet curve of her back, all so hot and sleek against him.
    Zoë felt the cool tile against her skin, the strength of Quent as he pushed her up against it, his mouth taking…and taking…from hers. She settled her hands over the smooth, muscular plains of his chest, her fingers dipping into the spread of hair that grew there, golden and brown, and tight, and she tipped her head back against the wall as he moved to maul sensuously the strong cord of her neck, the sensitive skin beneath her ear and along her throat.
    She shivered beneath his hands and mouth, and felt her body gather up tighter, her nipples hard and ready, the warm rush of pleasure superseding the blast of water in her face and over her shoulders. He groaned something into her neck, and the low, guttural sound almost like desperation sent a sharp pleasure-pain shooting down low, deep and hard and promising.
    “Oh, yes,” she whispered against his hair, thick and dripping and warm against her face.
    “Zoë,” he muttered. “I…”
    “Don’t talk,” she ordered, busy at his waist, pulling at the soaking denim taut around the top button.
    He laughed against her shoulder, husky and warm, then surged forward to capture her mouth with a long, deep, probing kiss that had her hands dropping away and clutching his shoulders to keep herself upright.
Oh God.
She couldn’t breathe, she didn’t
want
to breathe…she wanted this to never stop. Never end.
    His broad, square shoulders, strong and solid, moved fluidly under her fingers as he fumbled with the fly of his jeans down between them. Muscles shifted, flexing beneath her fingers, and at last Zoë had to pull her mouth away to gasp in a breath. Then she went back to taste him, his jaw and cheek, wet and lightly stubbled, then his full, hungry lips again.
    He shifted against her, and suddenly he was there, hands on her hips, lifting her, mouth crushed to hers, breaths mingling with the steady beat of rain…he settled her against the tile wall, spine flat and stable, and then…
oh
.
    Zoë cried out against his mouth just as he groaned.
Yes, yes, oh, Quent.
He filled her, perfectly, fully, and then, hands on her hips, her legs around his shower-slicked body, he moved. He didn’t wait, he went on. Hard, fast, desperately.
    One hand curled into his thick hair, her head tipped back again so she could breathe, could cry out and pant with the coming, Zoë closed her eyes for the gathering of pleasure. Her body tightened around him, she felt his heart pounding beneath her other palm, she levered her body, shifting crazily against him,
with
him, battling in that timeless rhythm…reaching for what she needed. She felt him readying, tensing…and her own peak just…there. Just…
there.
    She might have screamed his name as she caught it, she might have cried out, but she didn’t care because the world burst, hot and strong, and she was with him, against that warm, solid body, shuddering and groaning against hers. Sagging with her, bracing them both up with one powerful hand and the opposite knee against the slick wall.
    After a moment of pounding satiation deep within, and water over and around, she dragged open her eyes to find his staring down at her. The first time she’d really seen them, in full light. Blue-flecked