Reborn (9 page)

She licked her lips as she looked at him, her eyes drifting down his shoulders to his tattooed arms to the hard-on that was clearly visible in his jeans.

“Take off your shirt,” she ordered, and he obeyed immediately, ripping it off over his head and hurling it to an unknown corner.

All his tattoos were bared to her eyes and she studied them as if he were an exhibit in a museum, her eyes drifting over the Celtic knots on his arms, the fantastic beasts on his chest, and the name Mandy with a date below it, tattooed over his heart. She traced it with her fingertip.

Her lips parted, in surprise, he thought, and something else.

“Why do you get the tattoos?” she asked, pulling away and drawing her T-shirt over her head.

He barely heard her question. She was wearing a lace black-and-nude-colored bra that was sheer enough to show her pebbled nipples.

“Because I like them.”

She tilted her head and held one arm over her chest, blocking his view of her nipples, but pushing her ample, creamy white breasts in delicious mounds over her forearm.

“That’s not an answer.”

He gritted his teeth. “No pussy is worth this.”

“You can’t back out now.”

He didn’t want to back out. For fuck’s sake, he hated this and yet his dick was so hard he thought he might come in his damn jeans. “I don’t know. They’re like . . . good luck, ye know? My first was the book with the open pages . . . here.” He pointed to a tattoo on the inside of his forearm just below his elbow, and it was indeed a rough drawing of a book, with the pages fluttering open. He dropped his arms again and stood rigidly, as if she were holding a gun on him.

Lille found both the tattoo and his unwillingness . . . charming. Damn, the man had to be deeper than a shot glass to get a tattoo of a book, but she hadn’t seen much evidence to the contrary.

“Come closer,” she ordered.

He did, approaching as if magnetized, his eyes on hers. She dropped the arm covering her chest and his gaze dropped. He braced his hands on the bar on either side of her legs but didn’t touch her.

“You fucking women.” He shook his head.

“Mary said she dominated you,” Lille murmured, and ran her hands through his thick hair.

He laughed shortly. “Well, now, I didn’t want to hurt yer girl’s feelings.”

He turned his head into her palms, letting her stroke him, and she used her nails to scrape along his scalp. In the background, Beyoncé’s “Drunk in Love” set a slow, grinding pace in the room.

She leaned down. “I think you liked it.” She bit down on the top of his ear, hard enough to hurt.

His hands moved to the tops of her thighs in the leggings and dug in.

She immediately pulled away. “You can’t touch me yet.”

He moved his hands back where they were on either side of her and the muscles in his forearms budged warningly, tattoos dancing.

Distracted by how beautiful they were, she ran her hands over his arms. His skin was smooth, but not completely hairless, hardly surprising considering his stubble.

She leaned in close, almost to his lips. They were full and flush with blood—probably like his dick. She kissed him, very gently, brushing her lips against his, featherlight and teasing, just as she would kiss his dick . . . later.

She moved back. “Make me a drink.”

His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched, but he stepped back and walked down the bar to the waitress station, where he lifted the pass-through with sharp, jerky movements.

Lille turned on the bar so that she was facing away from the main room. She could see a distorted version of herself in the mirror behind the glasses. She looked like a pinup in her black leggings and sheer bra. It felt naughty and very, very good.

As soon as he stepped behind the bar, he seemed to relax a little, a man in the place he belonged.

He pulled down two shot glasses and poured two shots of tequila.

Mildly amused that he hadn’t asked her what she wanted, Lille took the shot he handed her and downed it. He did the same.

She handed him her shot glass. He refilled them both and handed hers back to her.

She put it between her cleavage and leaned forward with her hands on the bar, using her upper arms to push her breasts together.

He paused with his shot glass halfway to his mouth.

“Come take the shot,” she told him, and he tossed down his shot and moved toward her. He knelt, sliding his hands under her breasts and cupping them before burying his face between her breasts and covering the shot glass with his lips.

She leaned forward, bracing herself with one arm and gripping the back of his head with the other. He was stroking her nipple as he picked up the shot with his mouth and knocked it back, all without touching it with his hands. Lille gasped, feeling like her nipple was connected by a string to her clit, loving the rough touch of his fingers, the working of his throat as he swallowed.

He sat back on his haunches, pulling away from her grip, and removed the shot glass from his mouth, dropping it on the floor. His eyes were hot as he stared at her.

She sat back, then reached back and unhooked the clasp of her bra, letting it fall to her elbows and then the floor.

She braced her arms on the bar again and leaned forward, admiring the picture she made in the mirror, her full golden breasts with their coral-tipped nipples drawn into tight little buds.

“Come suck them,” she ordered, and he did, barely seeming to realize that he was being commanded; rather, it was like he was drawn by some invisible line, tugging him to the tips of her breasts, which begged sweetly for his attention.

He knelt again, cupping her more fiercely in his hands, squeezing so that she made small noises of excitement and lust. His mouth fastened hungrily on the tips of her breasts and tugged, swirling his tongue around in rough, wet eddies, like a current.

“Oh, yeah. You like sucking my tits, don’t you?” she murmured. “I’m going to suck your dick tonight just like you’re sucking my tits, so you better do a good job. You better go all out.” Lille liked the shocked look on his face; she liked that she wasn’t what he expected.

Max’s erection felt as if it had swelled to epic proportions. He’d never had a woman talk to him like this, describe what he was doing to her. To his surprise, he liked it. He never thought he’d want a woman to talk more during sex, but this one could say anything she fucking wanted.

“Suck me harder,” she ordered, “and pinch the other.”

He did, just hard enough so that he knew it hurt, and her hips jerked forward.

“That’s it,” she gasped as he did it again.

“I want to fuck you,” he rasped, straightening to his full height and looming over her. “I want to rip those leggings down your legs, spread you apart, and pull you onto this hard cock.”

He tugged her hips so that most of her weight was supported by his hips instead of the bar. His cock was indeed hard. Rubbing it against her through the leggings, Max watched her reaction as she tilted her head back to meet his eyes. Her skin, dewy and flushed, was perfect even close up; her lips were full and slightly parted.

“Kiss me,” she ordered, and he did, for the first time without any anger, just taking her with his mouth because he so badly wanted to take her body. She tasted like tequila and lime, like a perfect beach afternoon, like a glass of whiskey and a good book.

She gave as good as she got, her jaw opening wide, her tongue dueling with his, all the while their bodies straining to get closer and closer. Max gripped her the way a drowning man in a river grips a tree limb to keep himself afloat, until he couldn’t take one more second.

He ripped himself away from her, boosting her back onto the bar with one hand while with the other he reached for the waistband of her leggings and tugged them roughly down, taking her thong panties with them.

The leggings and panties caught on her combat boots, so he roughly turned her over on her stomach on the bar, aware on some level that she wasn’t protesting, that she was encouraging him, her breath fast and rough. He spread her thighs, enjoying the lush feel of her, using his palms to hold her apart so he could see the pink of her, smell the salty slick scent of her arousal.

Her pussy was swollen . . . wet . . . irresistible; he knelt down again and worshipped her with his mouth, searching deep with his tongue with the initial foray and then gentling, searching with the tip of his tongue for the little pearl that would make her come.

She used her arms, pushing on the bar to arch herself farther back, pressing herself against his face while chanting, “Oh fuck, yes. Fuck, yes.”

She tasted sweet; the skin on her thighs was soft but resilient, her muscles bunched and tight as she strained for release.

“Fuck me now,” she demanded, and that was one order he didn’t mind obeying.

In one smooth motion, he straightened and ripped open the fly of his jeans, grabbing her hips and pulling her back and down toward his cock. Using his thumbs, he spread apart the cheeks of her ass, watching as the head of his dick speared her thick, wet pussy.

Lille gasped
as she felt Max push into
her entrance.

“Wait. Condom.”

“Fuuuck.” His fingers pressed bruisingly into her ass, but then he pulled back and suddenly his hands were gone. She gripped the bar harder now that he wasn’t supporting her weight, nearly collapsing into a giant lust puddle.

She didn’t have to hold on for long. She heard the crinkle of tearing foil and then his hands were back, taking her hips while his dick found its way back home. He was big, stretching her, and she whimpered because it had been a long time since she’d felt this rising excitement. After a while, with Paul, it had been a chore, something she did because she was supposed to . . . but this, this was a rising, curling ache between her legs. She wanted to wriggle and shove and demand that he move faster, harder, fuck her hard. He was in control now, her hips controlled by his big hands, her legs restrained by her leggings on her lower calves. He couldn’t spread her legs very wide, so he was working himself in, using the moisture he’d so generously deposited with his tongue.

“God,” she gasped, dropping her head and glancing behind her as he shoved his full length inside.

He paused, looking at her.

“What are you waiting for? Do it.”

He did, pulling back, dragging his thick length out of her sensitive tissues. She moaned, desperate for him to shove it back in.

When he did it was like the one and only time she’d tried surfing. She’d fallen off the board into the waves and they’d caught her, tumbling her, dragging her back and forth, until she was desperate for a breath, her heart racing, her lungs struggling as she fought and fought. He dragged her back and forth, his hips pistoning, and she wanted to capture and hold him, take him, and then suddenly her body was gripping him of its own volition, squeezing and milking him while she shuddered and moaned.

He came shortly afterward, roaring and bruising as he jerked against her.

They collapsed into a sweaty, breathless heap onto the recently cleaned rubber floor mats that covered the floor behind the bar.

Lille was on her knees, her leggings twisted around her ankles, Max’s hard body surrounding her. She reveled in it for a moment, in the shudders that caught her by surprise and made her breath catch, but then she began to feel trapped; she couldn’t move her legs, and he was heavy.

She couldn’t breathe, so she shoved him with her elbows.

He obligingly moved to the side, withdrawing from her completely in the process. She heard him curse as he removed the condom.

She stood, pulling up her leggings as she went.

When she was covered, or at least the bottom half of her was, she shoved her sweat-dampened hair out of her eyes and glared down at him.

Half-collapsed on his side with his now soft dick visible in the open fly of his jeans, Max looked both satisfied and wary.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Max glanced up at the bare-breasted goddess above him, taking in the picture she made in her black leggings and combat boots, telling him she wasn’t done with him, and found the sense of humor that had eluded him for some time. She was the damndest woman.

“Well, thank the Lord for that, then.” He glanced down at his fly, where his dick was once again stirring, growing thicker and longer within the frame of his jeans.

“Indeed,” she agreed in that superior tone she had. “Let’s go back to your place.”

CHAPTER
Eight

Lille drove Max’s truck, pleased by the power and height of the vehicle. She’d refused to let him drive after drinking so much, though the house was only a mile or so away.

“I like your truck,” she told him.

He sat sprawled in the front seat, pissed off that he wasn’t driving.
Get used to it,
she thought. She intended to stay in the driver’s seat all night.

“When we get to your house, I’d like you to strip down so I can admire you. I’d like to trace your tattoos with my tongue.”

Max felt
his cock rise despite his irritation
with her. He sat up a little straighter in the passenger seat, which he’d never sat in to his recollection.