Goodnight Kisses by Wilhelmina Stolen

started
drove them. He took the steps two at a time, stumbled through the
front door, and headed for the bedroom. Tossing her on the bed, he
peeled away his wet shirt and kicked off his boots.
    The bare window didn’t allow much light from the
black night, but faint pulses of lightning delivered flashes of his
face and chest.
    She welcomed his deep kiss while
working to unbuckle his
belt . Once it was free, she unbuttoned his
jeans and pushed them down. But the wet denim didn’t make the
simple task easy. “Darlin’, you’re killin’ me.”
    At mid-thigh, he took over, stripping them off
quickly. “Stay put,” he said and disappeared into the other
room.
    She yanked off her boots as he
returned with a Coleman lantern. He sat it on the floor and tossed
a condom on the bed next to her.
    Birth control. She hadn’t thought of that.
    She rose to her knees, and let her
eyes map out the places her hands wanted to go. She was fascinated
by the hardness and beauty of his body, and the lantern gave off
just enough light to make the exploration of her hands sinful. She
yearned to look at him, naked in the light, touch him, hold him in
her hand and feel him intimately.
    He held her gaze, watching her
discover his body as her palms glided over his rain soaked chest,
and lower to the black briefs which hugged his privates. Past the
hard V-shaped muscles of his lower stomach, and
downwards.
    Oh! Wow!
    His face contorted with pleasure when her fingers
curled around him, and closed his eyes with a moan. A clenched jaw
and an inward breath enticed her to caress the length of him.
    All the stories she consumed hadn’t
prepared her for the physical experience of lovemaking. Sex isn’t like cooking. There’s no recipe to
follow. No directions. You could read a hundred books and not know
what the hell you’re doing. His lecture on
sex pierced her mind, conjuring an impish grin, and a husky
laugh.
    McCrea’s lids peeked opened. “What?”
    She teased wet kisses along his jawline, to his chin
and down to his chest, hesitating long enough to add a flick of her
tongue to the nipple. “Still think I can’t cook?”
    A
lip-biting smile decked his face. “You’re
just beatin’ the batter, darlin’.”
    Surprised, but not derailed, she
quickened the movement of her hand into a long sensual stroke and met his lewd answer with a slow, lascivious lick from
navel to sternum . “Do I get to lick the
spoon?” 
    The fingers tangled in her hair at
the nape of her neck clenched to tilt her head up.
“Remember what I said about a man having limits?”
    Smiling, she repeated the stroke which thrust his
hips forward. “Uh-huh.”
    “You’re about to push me to mine,” he said, catching
her hand to stop the next stroke.
    She grinned. “Spoilsport.”
    “Spoilsport?” He playfully, shoved her backwards
onto the bed and climbed over her. “We’ll see who’s the
spoilsport.”
    Giggling, she attempted an escape. “I was joking!” The delicious promise coiled desire in
the pit of her belly and slowed her retreat. She loved the game,
and the consequences of losing were going to be excruciatingly
sweet! His hand, twice the size of hers snagged one wrist. She
squirmed against him, fighting the capture of her other hand, but
lost. “No!”
    Above her, he waited with a corrupt smile.
    She squirmed again. “I guess I’m at your mercy.”
    The smile dissolved and for the longest time, he
simply stared at her.
    Her arms, taut from the game, relaxed. “What?”
    A slight lift to the corner of his
mouth which could have been mistaken for remorse triggered panic
to rise in her. The night was too perfect, and she had been to
brazen. Now, what? “Did I do something wrong?”
    A brief frown grazed his forehead. “No. Why would
you think that?”
    “I thought maybe all that talk about licking spoons
might have turned you off.”
    A tender smile darted across his lips. “No, darlin’.
I love it when you talk about licking my spoon.”
    She