Wild Child by Molly O'Keefe

back down to her hips, his fingers curving over her butt in a way she’d had no idea she loved. But she did, and when he squeezed her, his fingers biting into her skin through the fabric of her skirt, she groaned, the sound loud in the silence.
    “Not quite so prim now, are you?” he asked in a voice that made her wet.
    No , she thought, she was none of the things she triedso hard to be, nothing like the woman the world thought she was.
    “I like that,” he murmured, and she wanted to tell him to shut up, that talking was ruining the psychotic break she was enjoying. He shifted again and suddenly they were pressed chest and torso together and the thick ridge of his erection brushed her core.
    She gasped, arching into the contact, wanting more. And he obliged, lifting her against him until the point of friction between them was hot enough to start a fire. She bit his lip, fighting to get closer, fighting to have more of this feeling, this wild, uncontrolled, running-down-the-hill feeling.
    He groaned against her mouth, his hands lifting from her hips to find her breasts, small and aching beneath the sensible white shell she wore. He stroked her, rubbed her, and when she bit him again he squeezed her, just enough, just enough to send her one rung higher.
    “Spread your legs,” he breathed against her mouth, and it didn’t occur to her not to. It didn’t occur to her to have a thought in her head that would contradict this stranger and the feelings he was creating in her. She shifted her little green ballet slippers and his hand curved around the back of her thigh. Had anyone ever touched her there? she wondered. Because the skin felt new, brought to life by his touch. She moaned at the contact of his skin, callused and rough against the smooth, relatively untouched skin of her thigh.
    “More,” he told her and she did exactly what he said, unable to think of a reason not to. Wind blew past them, under her skirt, against the dampness he’d created.
    His hand slipped up under her skirt, his fingers under the elastic edge of her underwear, until he cupped her ass in his hand, his fingertips just at the edge of the valley between her cheeks.
    “Oh,” she gasped, breaking their kiss but not flinchingas his fingers traced that valley, curling deeper. It was dark and exciting, and she couldn’t breathe for the pleasure of his touch.
    No one had ever touched her there. She was sure of it. Something like this a girl would remember.
    And then he found the electric center of her body where she was wet and hot and dying for him. Dying for him to slide inside of her.
    “What—” She gulped air, unsure of what she was going to ask. What are you doing to me? What are we doing?
    “Shhhh,” he whispered, calming her. His eyes, sleepy and sexual, blazing beneath his lowered eyelids.
    His other hand traced the front of her underwear, finding her clitoris through the silk, and it was erotic. His bare hand, the silk, the silence surrounding them.
    “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “So in control. You scared me, you know.” He was teasing her. Making fun of her, and she didn’t care. Was too far gone.
    “Please,” she gasped and he smiled, so wicked, so knowingly wicked.
    His finger from behind sank deep inside of her and his other hand picked up a heady, demanding rhythm.
    This. This was happening. This man … this handsome stranger so far beyond her reach, her world, was going to make her come on the side of the road and she was doing nothing to stop it. She had started it!
    “Yes,” she sighed, pressing her forehead against his shoulder; the scent of him, sexy and sweaty and warm and real, was too much, and the world started to go fuzzy. As her body coiled and burned, she opened her mouth and bit that shoulder muscle.
    He jerked against her and swore, his hands getting rougher. Another finger joined the first and he picked up the pace and she clutched at him, wrapping her arms around him, the only thing