Tempt Me, Taste Me, Touch Me
Page 13
"Big threats for such a little girl;' he mocked, playing along, hoping that riling her up would only serve to make things hotter.
Unexpectedly, she smiled, and her expression held so much feminine mystery, so much power, so much sensuality, that Tyson wished for chains. Otherwise, he was going to leap off the bench and take her on the cement floor.
Slowly her fingers move~ to the buttons on the plaid work shirt he had given her to wear after their sexy shower. She unbuttoned the second button from the top, and he swallowed. Noisily. Oh, shit, she was going to strip for him. Carrie was a wet dream come to life. Her fingers moved down the shirt, unfastening one button and then the next. Finally it was open and she shrugged, letting the shirt fall back on her shoulders. The curve of one breast was bathed by the light from the lantern, and he felt himself pulse in his pants. He was going to come, just sitting here, looking at her, even though she wasn't naked yet.
Her blue eyes found his and her lips curved up as she pushed her br**sts out and let the shirt fall to the ground. He'd seen her in the shower, but still, he wasn't prepared for this. For her jaw dropping beauty. For the perfect curve of her br**sts, where the soft flesh met her rib cage. For the tightly puckered areola, the same rosy red of her lips.
"Carrie;' he groaned, unable to keep her name from his lips. "Was this worth waiting for" she asked, and he nodded like an idiot schoolboy being given a sweet treat. Her fingers moved to the button on the top of the jeans he'd loaned her, and he tightly gripped the wooden slats on the bench until his knuckles went white. The sound of the zipper opening reverberated against the walls of the cave.
The jeans dropped to the floor, and she stood naked and glorious before him. He started to get up, to come to her so that he could lick her and touch her and drive into her, but she put her palm up. "Stop;' she said. "I want you to stay there. On the bench. Across the room. Until I'm done:'
What the hell? Was she crazy? But he knew better than to argue with a woman, especially one this intoxicating, so he sat back down without taking his eyes from her.
And then she was running her hands over her br**sts, pinching her ni**les between her thumb and her middle finger, and she was throwing her head back and moaning with pleasure. His c**k pulsed again, then he forgot all about himself as she moved one hand from her bountiful br**sts down her stomach. Past her waist. Over the golden thatch of hair. Straight for her pu**y.
She buried her fingers there and then, on a gasp, widened her stance and started masturbating. Right in front of him. In his cellar.
He leaped up off the bench, closing the space between them, unable to take it anymore. He needed to be in her. Now. He turned her, and she bent over a low barrel, propping herself up on her hands as he undid his zipper, rolled on another condom, and gripped her hips. All it took was one thrust and he was exploding, his shouts of satisfaction echoing off the walls and merging with her screams.
His cave was never going to be the same again.
SIX
IT WAS THE RECIPE for a perfect Saturday. Wake up to slow, wonderful lovemaking from the man who could make you come with just a look. Eat the fabulous gourmet breakfast he insisted on dishing up for you. Head out onto his property-his Napa Valley vineyard, no less-and immerse yourself in one of the subjects you are most fascinated by, which he happens to know inside and out.
Again and again throughout the day, Carrie was distracted by Tyson's fine butt. His work-hardened hands. His toned, buff torso as he lifted heavy rocks like they were marshmallows. Nothing about him fit her previous version of the perfect man. He wasn't polished or refined. He would rather be outside covered with dirt than wearing Prada.
So then why did he seem so perfect for her? She'd been sixteen the first time she'd gone out on a date, the first time she'd been kissed. Was it possible that all this time she'd had her sights on the wrong kind of man? Had she always fallen for shine over substance? For smooth words versus honest ones? And would she ever learn to trust her instincts again, when she'd been so far off base for so long?
She suddenly realized that her hair must be sticking up in a hundred different directions. Not to mention that her Capri pants and one of Tyson's old T-shirts were pretty much covered with dust and sweat. James had never seen her this untidy. For two years, she'd made certain that she didn't sweat, or smell, or have a hair out of place in his presence. Then again, she'd never done anything strenuous with him, save an occasional handball game at the gym.
She could see herself spending more days like this with Tyson, working in the sun together ... "I know you didn't intend to spend your whole weekend with me:' Tyson said.
Carrie stood upright so fast that she bonked her head into one of the wires that held the vines upright. Her stomach sank to her knees as the implication of that comment sank in. Here she was wondering if Tyson was her perfect match, while he was trying to figure out a nice way to get rid of her.
"Ouch;' she said, rubbing her head. Of course he had better things to do than babysit some tourist all weekend. One thing she'd learned during the past two years was that the perfect guest never outstayed her welcome. Tyson was running his own vineyard and prestigious wine label, for God's sake. She handed him her clippers and took off the gloves he'd lent her.
It shouldn't have hurt so much, but it did.
"I really shouldn't have monopolized your time like this.
Thanks so much for everything you've taught me today. I'll be sure to get this T-shirt back to you once I've washed it:'
She turned to make a hasty, mortified exit, but he grabbed her arm before she could get away and spun her into him.
"You know, I think this hot-cold thing you do is really a turn-on, but what I was trying to get at is that I want you to be my date tonight:'
"Your date?"
"The Napa Winemakers Dinner is tonight. If you don't come with me, I'll be forced to make small talk with the single, desperate woman they always seat me next to:'
She grinned at his joke, even though she wasn't sure she felt much better about being invited merely to save him from a worse fate.
"That didn't come out right. I want to be with you, Carrie.
Plain and simple. But I've got this industry commitment tonight and I hope you'll have a good time too. If you agree to come, that is."
"I'd love to be your date;' she said softly, turning her face up to his and pulling him down for a hot kiss. "But there's only one problem. I don't have anything to wear:'
"How about this? I'll drop you off at your hotel so that you can clean up. Even though I think you look amazing dirty. And you're so much fun to wash:' He ran his thumb over her lower lip and she shivered in anticipation for what she knew would come later, when his big, hard body was hovering over hers. "I'll find you a dress. A great one:'
Unexpectedly, she smiled, and her expression held so much feminine mystery, so much power, so much sensuality, that Tyson wished for chains. Otherwise, he was going to leap off the bench and take her on the cement floor.
Slowly her fingers move~ to the buttons on the plaid work shirt he had given her to wear after their sexy shower. She unbuttoned the second button from the top, and he swallowed. Noisily. Oh, shit, she was going to strip for him. Carrie was a wet dream come to life. Her fingers moved down the shirt, unfastening one button and then the next. Finally it was open and she shrugged, letting the shirt fall back on her shoulders. The curve of one breast was bathed by the light from the lantern, and he felt himself pulse in his pants. He was going to come, just sitting here, looking at her, even though she wasn't naked yet.
Her blue eyes found his and her lips curved up as she pushed her br**sts out and let the shirt fall to the ground. He'd seen her in the shower, but still, he wasn't prepared for this. For her jaw dropping beauty. For the perfect curve of her br**sts, where the soft flesh met her rib cage. For the tightly puckered areola, the same rosy red of her lips.
"Carrie;' he groaned, unable to keep her name from his lips. "Was this worth waiting for" she asked, and he nodded like an idiot schoolboy being given a sweet treat. Her fingers moved to the button on the top of the jeans he'd loaned her, and he tightly gripped the wooden slats on the bench until his knuckles went white. The sound of the zipper opening reverberated against the walls of the cave.
The jeans dropped to the floor, and she stood naked and glorious before him. He started to get up, to come to her so that he could lick her and touch her and drive into her, but she put her palm up. "Stop;' she said. "I want you to stay there. On the bench. Across the room. Until I'm done:'
What the hell? Was she crazy? But he knew better than to argue with a woman, especially one this intoxicating, so he sat back down without taking his eyes from her.
And then she was running her hands over her br**sts, pinching her ni**les between her thumb and her middle finger, and she was throwing her head back and moaning with pleasure. His c**k pulsed again, then he forgot all about himself as she moved one hand from her bountiful br**sts down her stomach. Past her waist. Over the golden thatch of hair. Straight for her pu**y.
She buried her fingers there and then, on a gasp, widened her stance and started masturbating. Right in front of him. In his cellar.
He leaped up off the bench, closing the space between them, unable to take it anymore. He needed to be in her. Now. He turned her, and she bent over a low barrel, propping herself up on her hands as he undid his zipper, rolled on another condom, and gripped her hips. All it took was one thrust and he was exploding, his shouts of satisfaction echoing off the walls and merging with her screams.
His cave was never going to be the same again.
SIX
IT WAS THE RECIPE for a perfect Saturday. Wake up to slow, wonderful lovemaking from the man who could make you come with just a look. Eat the fabulous gourmet breakfast he insisted on dishing up for you. Head out onto his property-his Napa Valley vineyard, no less-and immerse yourself in one of the subjects you are most fascinated by, which he happens to know inside and out.
Again and again throughout the day, Carrie was distracted by Tyson's fine butt. His work-hardened hands. His toned, buff torso as he lifted heavy rocks like they were marshmallows. Nothing about him fit her previous version of the perfect man. He wasn't polished or refined. He would rather be outside covered with dirt than wearing Prada.
So then why did he seem so perfect for her? She'd been sixteen the first time she'd gone out on a date, the first time she'd been kissed. Was it possible that all this time she'd had her sights on the wrong kind of man? Had she always fallen for shine over substance? For smooth words versus honest ones? And would she ever learn to trust her instincts again, when she'd been so far off base for so long?
She suddenly realized that her hair must be sticking up in a hundred different directions. Not to mention that her Capri pants and one of Tyson's old T-shirts were pretty much covered with dust and sweat. James had never seen her this untidy. For two years, she'd made certain that she didn't sweat, or smell, or have a hair out of place in his presence. Then again, she'd never done anything strenuous with him, save an occasional handball game at the gym.
She could see herself spending more days like this with Tyson, working in the sun together ... "I know you didn't intend to spend your whole weekend with me:' Tyson said.
Carrie stood upright so fast that she bonked her head into one of the wires that held the vines upright. Her stomach sank to her knees as the implication of that comment sank in. Here she was wondering if Tyson was her perfect match, while he was trying to figure out a nice way to get rid of her.
"Ouch;' she said, rubbing her head. Of course he had better things to do than babysit some tourist all weekend. One thing she'd learned during the past two years was that the perfect guest never outstayed her welcome. Tyson was running his own vineyard and prestigious wine label, for God's sake. She handed him her clippers and took off the gloves he'd lent her.
It shouldn't have hurt so much, but it did.
"I really shouldn't have monopolized your time like this.
Thanks so much for everything you've taught me today. I'll be sure to get this T-shirt back to you once I've washed it:'
She turned to make a hasty, mortified exit, but he grabbed her arm before she could get away and spun her into him.
"You know, I think this hot-cold thing you do is really a turn-on, but what I was trying to get at is that I want you to be my date tonight:'
"Your date?"
"The Napa Winemakers Dinner is tonight. If you don't come with me, I'll be forced to make small talk with the single, desperate woman they always seat me next to:'
She grinned at his joke, even though she wasn't sure she felt much better about being invited merely to save him from a worse fate.
"That didn't come out right. I want to be with you, Carrie.
Plain and simple. But I've got this industry commitment tonight and I hope you'll have a good time too. If you agree to come, that is."
"I'd love to be your date;' she said softly, turning her face up to his and pulling him down for a hot kiss. "But there's only one problem. I don't have anything to wear:'
"How about this? I'll drop you off at your hotel so that you can clean up. Even though I think you look amazing dirty. And you're so much fun to wash:' He ran his thumb over her lower lip and she shivered in anticipation for what she knew would come later, when his big, hard body was hovering over hers. "I'll find you a dress. A great one:'
