Cream of the Crop
Page 43
He closed the door, stepped toward me, then pulled his shirt off over his head. “You mean, when I invited you over to teach you how to make cheese only so you could vomit on me? All in the hopes of getting you naked and wet in my shower?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I knew it.”
He unzipped his jeans, pushed them down, and stepped out of them, leaving him as naked as I was, but with one beautiful difference.
“You’re hard.” I gulped.
“I’ve been hard all damn day.” And with that he lifted me straight up and over the edge of the tub, under the spray of the water.
“That must have been terrible,” I teased as he closed the pink rose shower curtain around us. “I like the flowers, by the way.”
“What flowers?”
“On the curtain?” I shook my head as he gathered up handfuls of my hair and dipped them under the water. “We’re kind of surrounded by them.”
“I don’t see anything but you right now, Pinup.” And then his mouth was on me, leaning down and pressing kisses all along my neck, my throat, my jaw, as the water spilled down over both of us. I could feel him against my stomach, hard and thick. And he’d been hard all day?
It got me hot because the idea that someone like Oscar, all giant Paul Bunyan guy, was thinking about me all day, was intoxicating. “Did you really think about me today?”
“Mm-hm,” he said, his voice hot on my skin. I could feel his breath moving across my skin. “I thought about you all week.”
“You could have called me.”
“I didn’t have your number.” He tipped my head back under the water, saturating my hair. Filling his hands with shampoo, he began to work up a lather.
“Roxie would have given it to you.”
“True,” he said, massaging my head with strong and sure fingertips. “But then you would have known I was gonna call you.”
“And that’s bad?” I sputtered, just as he thrust his hips against mine.
“I knew you’d be back.”
Humph. Cheeky.
“Now close your eyes.” He brought my hands to my hair, encouraging me to rinse the bubbles out.
I did, leaning back and feeling the suds wash away, smoothing my long hair back and making sure there were no tangles. He knew I’d be back. How cocky was this guy? How did he know that—
He put his mouth on me. Ohhhh.
He put his mouth on me there.
My eyes flew open to look down, down between my legs, where a beautifully wet Oscar was kneeling, kissing, licking my sensitive skin. His tongue delved deep and I shivered, slapping at the shower tile, slapping at his shoulders, trying to get purchase on anything that could ground me while his mouth surrounded me with the sweetest kind of torture there is.
One hand slid up the back of my leg, opening me further, snaking around my knee and lifting it to the edge of the tub, exposing me fully to him, to whatever he wanted to see or touch or taste.
“Oh. Yes,” I cried out, as he flicked his tongue against my clit, his shoulder pushing my legs wider as he panted against me, his mouth open and wet and hot and . . .
there
there
there
right
exactly
there . . .
“Oscar,” I groaned, feeling his late-afternoon stubble scrape against my sensitive skin, too much and not enough all at once and wrapped together and
there
there
there
fuck
there
oh
yes
there.
And I exploded.
“There she is,” he moaned, licking and sucking and letting me ride it out as he held me up. And as soon as I was boneless and noodly, he scooped me up, wet and slippery, and carried me to his bed.
I tried to wrap my arms around him, tried to get them to work, but I was still shaking, still shivering as he rose over me. Dimly I saw him rolling the condom on. Dimly I saw him wrapping my legs around his waist. Dimly I heard him grunt as he twisted, pushing into me with words like so tight and so beautiful and fuck that’s good.
Finally I lifted my hips to meet his thrusts, wild and rough. He hovered over me, stretching his glorious body across me, those colors on his chest and arms flashing as he gazed down at me, all eyebrow scar and biting down on his lower lip and spilling down those gorgeous words all over me.
He held my hip in one hand, my breasts in the other, running his fingertips over the taut peaks and teasing. Then his mouth was on me again, on my breasts, using that same tongue and those same teeth that had coaxed that wild orgasm from me just moments ago to make me scream again at the exquisite feel of him sucking at me.
Sucking and fucking and biting and scratching as my nails scored his back, determined to bring him deeper into me, which was impossible, as his thrusts alone were ready to split me in two and it was still not enough.
“You. Again.” His brief words spoke volumes as he dragged one hand down between us, licking his fingers, then sliding them against me, knowing already exactly how I liked to be touched.
My back bowed off the bed as I came again, ridiculously loud and long and fierce, him following only a moment after, his own groans filthy and primal.
He collapsed onto me, his head on my breast, my arms and legs wrapped around him as I held him to me. And we panted heavily, a shuddering pile of “sweet fuck, that was good.”
Oscar’s house was old and rustic, with wide-plank floors, wainscoting, beadboard—all the architectural details you’d look for in such an old farmhouse. He’d told me it wasn’t nearly as old as the barn but still from the last century, and had been in the family he’d purchased the farm from for generations. It had the requisite farmhouse sink, the farmhouse kitchen table, the Franklin stove in the corner, and even an old outhouse hidden behind a stand of old trees.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I knew it.”
He unzipped his jeans, pushed them down, and stepped out of them, leaving him as naked as I was, but with one beautiful difference.
“You’re hard.” I gulped.
“I’ve been hard all damn day.” And with that he lifted me straight up and over the edge of the tub, under the spray of the water.
“That must have been terrible,” I teased as he closed the pink rose shower curtain around us. “I like the flowers, by the way.”
“What flowers?”
“On the curtain?” I shook my head as he gathered up handfuls of my hair and dipped them under the water. “We’re kind of surrounded by them.”
“I don’t see anything but you right now, Pinup.” And then his mouth was on me, leaning down and pressing kisses all along my neck, my throat, my jaw, as the water spilled down over both of us. I could feel him against my stomach, hard and thick. And he’d been hard all day?
It got me hot because the idea that someone like Oscar, all giant Paul Bunyan guy, was thinking about me all day, was intoxicating. “Did you really think about me today?”
“Mm-hm,” he said, his voice hot on my skin. I could feel his breath moving across my skin. “I thought about you all week.”
“You could have called me.”
“I didn’t have your number.” He tipped my head back under the water, saturating my hair. Filling his hands with shampoo, he began to work up a lather.
“Roxie would have given it to you.”
“True,” he said, massaging my head with strong and sure fingertips. “But then you would have known I was gonna call you.”
“And that’s bad?” I sputtered, just as he thrust his hips against mine.
“I knew you’d be back.”
Humph. Cheeky.
“Now close your eyes.” He brought my hands to my hair, encouraging me to rinse the bubbles out.
I did, leaning back and feeling the suds wash away, smoothing my long hair back and making sure there were no tangles. He knew I’d be back. How cocky was this guy? How did he know that—
He put his mouth on me. Ohhhh.
He put his mouth on me there.
My eyes flew open to look down, down between my legs, where a beautifully wet Oscar was kneeling, kissing, licking my sensitive skin. His tongue delved deep and I shivered, slapping at the shower tile, slapping at his shoulders, trying to get purchase on anything that could ground me while his mouth surrounded me with the sweetest kind of torture there is.
One hand slid up the back of my leg, opening me further, snaking around my knee and lifting it to the edge of the tub, exposing me fully to him, to whatever he wanted to see or touch or taste.
“Oh. Yes,” I cried out, as he flicked his tongue against my clit, his shoulder pushing my legs wider as he panted against me, his mouth open and wet and hot and . . .
there
there
there
right
exactly
there . . .
“Oscar,” I groaned, feeling his late-afternoon stubble scrape against my sensitive skin, too much and not enough all at once and wrapped together and
there
there
there
fuck
there
oh
yes
there.
And I exploded.
“There she is,” he moaned, licking and sucking and letting me ride it out as he held me up. And as soon as I was boneless and noodly, he scooped me up, wet and slippery, and carried me to his bed.
I tried to wrap my arms around him, tried to get them to work, but I was still shaking, still shivering as he rose over me. Dimly I saw him rolling the condom on. Dimly I saw him wrapping my legs around his waist. Dimly I heard him grunt as he twisted, pushing into me with words like so tight and so beautiful and fuck that’s good.
Finally I lifted my hips to meet his thrusts, wild and rough. He hovered over me, stretching his glorious body across me, those colors on his chest and arms flashing as he gazed down at me, all eyebrow scar and biting down on his lower lip and spilling down those gorgeous words all over me.
He held my hip in one hand, my breasts in the other, running his fingertips over the taut peaks and teasing. Then his mouth was on me again, on my breasts, using that same tongue and those same teeth that had coaxed that wild orgasm from me just moments ago to make me scream again at the exquisite feel of him sucking at me.
Sucking and fucking and biting and scratching as my nails scored his back, determined to bring him deeper into me, which was impossible, as his thrusts alone were ready to split me in two and it was still not enough.
“You. Again.” His brief words spoke volumes as he dragged one hand down between us, licking his fingers, then sliding them against me, knowing already exactly how I liked to be touched.
My back bowed off the bed as I came again, ridiculously loud and long and fierce, him following only a moment after, his own groans filthy and primal.
He collapsed onto me, his head on my breast, my arms and legs wrapped around him as I held him to me. And we panted heavily, a shuddering pile of “sweet fuck, that was good.”
Oscar’s house was old and rustic, with wide-plank floors, wainscoting, beadboard—all the architectural details you’d look for in such an old farmhouse. He’d told me it wasn’t nearly as old as the barn but still from the last century, and had been in the family he’d purchased the farm from for generations. It had the requisite farmhouse sink, the farmhouse kitchen table, the Franklin stove in the corner, and even an old outhouse hidden behind a stand of old trees.
