Free Rich Bitch: Everything's Going to the Dogs by Nancy Warren Page B

deep in his frantic need. She licked at him, nipped him, took over his mouth as he made short work of the buttons down her front. He managed to undo her bra by feel, then kissed his way down to her still-damp breasts, the centers puckered and her beautiful, sensitive, coral-tipped nipples luring him until he took one into his mouth.
    It wasn’t enough. It didn’t seem like anything could ever be enough with this woman. He wanted all of her, now. His hands were under her skirt, reaching. She gripped the seat and lifted her hips so he could strip off her panties.
    Crazed with lust, he stood and shoved their breakfast to one end of the table. He heard a thunk as something crashed to the floor, but he didn’t much care. In the other room one of the dogs let out one muffled bark at the sound, but neither came to investigate for which he was grateful. He didn’t want a crowd watching what he was about to do.
    He pulled Sophie from her seat and hoisted her to the edge of the table. She clung to his shoulders, reaching up so she could kiss him again. He could taste her urgency, feel her mounting desire, and it fueled his own. Or his fueled hers.
    He bunched her skirt around her hips, then decided he needed her to be naked. So he took the extra few seconds to strip her of her skirt and then pushed her gently to her back until she was laid out on his table like a feast. Her skin was honey-toned in the warm light, her nipples dark coral. As she drew in a shuddering breath, he watched her rib cage rise, then the slight swell of her belly.
    She was surrounded by the remains of their breakfast. The fruit, some bread, the jam, his squeeze bottle of honey.
    As he reached across her, she reminded him he was fully dressed still by grabbing his T-shirt and pulling.
    One hand on the honey, the other reaching behind him, he yanked the thing over his head, put down the honey beside her raised knee, and then slipped the shirt off his arms.
    Sophie rose to her elbows and without a word looked significantly toward his crotch. Some things could be communicated in any language, he realized, as he obligingly stripped out of the clothes he’d dressed in less than an hour ago.
    He stepped between her knees, thought about parting them, then looked down at her, so glorious, the dark triangle of hair in the shadow cast by her raised legs. He wanted the sun on it.
    “Open yourself for me,” he said softly.
 A tiny sound came from her throat. For a second she didn’t move, and then she parted her knees with enough slowness to torture them both.
    “All the way,” he whispered, waiting until her thighs rested on the table, her knees hanging over. The sun turned her hair glossy, her thighs impossibly pale. He could see the faint line of a blue vein and followed 
it higher to where she was glistening with her own desire. Wet and plump and so very open for him.
    If he went down on her now, which he wanted to do quite desperately, it would all be over far too quickly. He wanted to draw out their pleasure. So he picked up his bear-shaped squeeze bottle of honey, leaned right over her, and squirted a golden drizzle onto her right nipple, then drew a lazy line to her left.
    “It feels cold,” she gasped, when he trailed the honey down, between her ribs, across her belly, filling her belly button with a golden pool of honey. Where he drizzled the honey goose bumps sprang up. He thought it the most erotic sight. He stopped just below her navel, and her hips jerked a little, in frustration, he guessed. Good. He wanted her on edge.
    At least as on edge as he was himself.
    Back to her breasts, and he licked at the honey, swirled it around with his tongue, rubbed his lips until they were smothered with it, and kissed her mouth, covering her with sticky sweetness. He lapped at her lips, making her giggle, lapped his way back to her breasts, and tongued her until he no longer tasted sweetness, then continued to follow the sweet path he’d drawn. As he tracked