Chance of Rain by Amber Lin Page B

answer,” she whispered, drawing him down for a kiss.
    His hands framed her face as his mouth claimed hers. He invaded her senses. She tasted his heat and breathed his musk. She slid her body against the dusting of hair that marked him as male. His lips were soft, tender, a stark contrast to the rigid length nudging her thigh. Slowly his hands slipped down, his open palms so sure and possessive, they sparked white-hot need. She wanted him to possess her. She was already his.
    He lifted her snug against his body and laid her down on the bed. The skirt of her dress rucked up between them, exposing her. He stood, but she didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her bared legs or blatant need, because he stared at her with something like awe.
    He didn’t appear embarrassed like her, and why should he be? He was all planes and angles, all sleekness and strength. And his cock. It jutted from his body, stark and proud. Her sex pulsed. Her throat grew dry. Then he took himself in his fist, and she almost came at the sight.
    He ran his hand up and down in leisurely strokes. The curved head disappeared on each upward motion and was revealed, glistening and thick, on every pull. The slow pace was a tease, making her heart beat faster and her breath speed up. It was almost a drawl; the lazy way he spoke, the lazy way he tugged his cock.
    Something primal stirred inside her, almost violent but completely feminine. She wanted to make him insane with lust, wanted him panting and desperate. But she also didn’t want him to stop pleasuring himself. So she was stuck, frozen in indecision and longing so great she ached with it. She physically hurt, and her fingers slipped down to assuage that ache, and oh, oh.
    His eyes narrowed at the sight. His nostrils flared, his cock jerked. Oh , yes.
    She rubbed at her clit, slow at first, then built up a rhythm. There, he caught it too. She reached lower, sliding her fingers inside, not surprised to find herself slick and hot and ready. He leaned closer, his body straining toward its goal, their fingers working faster and harder, bumping together, clumsy with need. It was almost cruel, knowing that she was seconds away from being filled if she wanted it, and she did. She wanted him inside her, but the wanting was delicious.
    She watched his body change in front of her like a storm rolling in. A flush of arousal darkened his already tanned skin. His lip curled up at the side. She knew him well now—he was close. A subtle thrusting motion jerked his hips in time with their mutual rhythm.
    “Hell.” His voice was hoarse, but she loved the way he said it, all low and drawn out.
    Suddenly she knew what she wanted, what would push her over, and him too. “You like this?” she asked, her breath coming short.
    He groaned. “How can you ask me that? I’m dying.”
    “You’d like it better if I took this off, right?” She would too, because her dress had never felt more constraining, the soft fabric abrasive against her sensitive nipples.
    “Yeah.” His eyes had narrowed to slits. “I want to see you.”
    “You sure? I think I could come like this, and we’d be done.”
    “Ah, shit.” Faster now, yes. “I want to see those pretty tits before I come. Let me see you, baby.”
    She paused in her own self-pleasure to pull the dress over her head. His gaze was glued to her breasts, his hand working his cock so hard it had to hurt. He looked like a man at the end of his rope, and it filled her with a feminine pride. “What do you say now?”
    “Fucking gorgeous.”
    “Oh, I like that. But I did something you wanted.” She paused, feeling nervous but determined. “What do you say?”
    His gaze met hers, the barest tilt of a smile on his lips. After a beat, “Thank you.”
    “Miss Bouchard,” she whispered, unable to dampen her answering grin. She found her clit again, circling, waiting. So close .
    His gaze alight with humor and heat, he drawled, “Thank you kindly, Miss Bouchard.” It was