Free Attitude by EC Sheedy Page B

Ginger wasn't one of them. He nudged her chin until she was looking at him. "Maybe not. Maybe you just recognize real potential when you see it."
    She gave him a wicked smile. "Somehow I don't think we're talking about the same kind of potential, Beaumann. I'm talking roast beef Sundays, minivans, and report cards. I think you're thinking more along the lines of this." She ran her hand up his sheet-covered thigh and over a part of him that didn't think logically at the best of times, let alone while being stroked toward oblivion.
    He gripped her hand, sucked in some air. "You're doing it again."
    "What?"
    "Taking control." He lifted her hand to his mouth, turned it and kissed her palm. "And proving my point, about your being scared of letting go with me."
    She looked mulish. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that guys don't like talking after sex?"
    He gave her a half smile and his breath faltered. "Unless they've had the best sex of their life and are imagining how deep, wet, and hot it's going to be the next time. When they make love." He reached for her. "Because that's what I'm going to do now, Ginger. I'm going to make love to you until you beg for more."
    "Beg, huh?" She slanted him a disbelieving look.
    "Beg," he promised.
    When she came—just the tiniest bit reluctantly—into his arms, he kissed her until that snag in his throat grew to the size of a balloon, and the ache in his gut threatened to damn near unman him. God, what a beautiful mouth; what fantastically soft skin. Cal deepened the kiss, knew for certain he could be in serious trouble with this special woman, but couldn't make himself care. Because he had the dim thought she was exactly the kind of trouble he'd been looking for all his life.
    He stretched her out beneath him, tossed the blanket aside, and started to kiss his way down to the begging zone. Ginger's studded navel had been his first surprise, but the tattoo he now discovered on her inner thigh brought his head up: a simulated postal sticker, black, red, and blue, stating boldly, Fragile, Handle With Care.
    When he touched it, traced it with his middle finger, he heard a raspy grumble from the headboard, "Don't laugh, Beaumann, or I'll have to kill you."
    He smiled, bent his head, and licked the sticker. When he raised his head to look at her again, his smile slipped. Suddenly, Ginger Cameron was serious business.
    He ran his hands between her thighs. Hot. Smooth... unyielding. He applied more pressure, and slipped one hand toward the slick curls at the apex of her thighs. He drew his finger lightly, pencil straight across her opening. "Let me see you, Ginger. Open for me." Another stroke, slower. His finger prowling for her hard tight nub.
    Her sharp intake of air told him he'd found it, and she opened her legs. He looked up to see her eyes drift close, her tongue sneak out to moisten her lips.
    Easy, Beaumann, take it slow and easy.
    "I'm going to open you up, sweetheart. Spread you wide. Then I'm going to look at you. Just look." He parted her, dropped his gaze to her swollen, moist sex. Shades of peach and pink, glistening, ready. He was so hard, so tight, he was breakable. "You're incredible. All velvet and honey. Absolutely incredible."
    He touched her clitoris, softly. Rolled it, gently.
    Ginger fisted her hands in the sheets, arched up, and offered herself, offered heaven. He took it.
    He covered her with his mouth, licked her with easy, expert strokes, lazily encircling her moist plump tip with the tip of his tongue. Then sucking it remorselessly.
    She thrashed above his head, tearing the fitted sheet from its mooring. "Cal... I can't hold on. I shouldn't—"
    "Yes, you should, lover. And you will." He wasn't sure if he said it aloud or just to himself. He only knew his control was washing away with every dewy drop Ginger gave him.
    He pressed his thumb on her sensitized tip—and his aching, throbbing erection to her wildly rocking pelvis. When he found her rhythm, he went in on liquid