Tempt Me, Taste Me, Touch Me
Page 8
The words flew out of her mouth in rapid succession before she put a sock in it. She sounded like a complete loser. A desperate, hard up, I-need;.to-have-sex-with-the-first-available-hard penis loser. "Great;' Tyson said. ''I'd better check on the meat. It's probably ready."
Carrie had never felt more like a bumbling fool. What had happened to the cool, poised woman who could effortlessly entertain a party of one hundred and make each one feel like the guest of honor? Frankly, she wished a mountain lion had eaten her, thereby saving her from being a complete idiot all night. So much for convincing Tyson to have a dirty weekend with her.
She put her glass down on the pine coffee table, walked to the rail of the deck, and took a deep breath of country air. Dried hay mixed with newly crushed grapes was a heady, sweet scent. She decided that no matter what, she was going to keep it together from here on out. But when Tyson came up behind her, holding two glasses, and said, "I've got a special new Pinot I'd like you to taste," the prim-and-proper voices in her head gave way.
Here was a man who oozed raw, masculine sex appeal. And somewhere within Carrie, there was a powerfully sexual woman dying to get out.
So Carrie turned to him and said, "I'd rather taste you instead."
A LOUD ROAR filled Tyson's head as all the blood in his body rushed to his cock.
Had she actually said she wanted to taste him?
It was obvious with just one glance, one word from her incredibly seductive mouth, that Carrie Anderson was wealthy, polished, and sophisticated. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her fingers so long and graceful that he couldn't help picturing them gripping his cock. He grew another inch behind his zipper and shifted to get comfortable, looking away from her hands. But that brought him right back to her mouth, to her red lips, just made for sucking-
His penis was running away ,with itself. Hadn't he learned the hard way that a guy like him, with dirt under his nails, who preferred being outside in the fields to sitting in a stuffy theater suffering through a symphony, had no business being with a woman like Carrie?
And that comment about lower profits due to organic farming ... it was exactly what his ex had said. For three years she'd tried to convince him to abandon his meticulous planting techniques, his organic pesticides, in favor of more grapes, more cases, more money. Marriage was forever, and Tyson had figured that every couple had things to work out, so he'd tried to see her point. Heck, he'd considered planting an acre of quick-to-profit Merlot to make Kimberly happy, but the only thing she'd been happy doing had been sleeping with his right-hand man.
He'd made the mistake of dating, and marrying, a money hungry, status-concerned woman before. And it had bit him in the ass. Hard.
Then again, he didn't want Carrie for marriage, did he? And he was betting that a woman like her might want to slum it for a weekend with a guy like him, without ever contemplating a relationship on Monday morning. All in all, a perfect arrangement.
He'd gone long enough without a woman. So when Carrie deftly plucked the stems of the balloon wineglasses from his hands, put them on the porch rail, and looked back up at him with a wicked gleam in her beautiful eyes, Tyson gave in.
He was going to let her have her way with him. And maybe later, if things went really well, they could play out some of the increasingly elaborate scenes in his head where she was the naughty grape stealer and he was punishing her with the flat of his hand against her soft, round ass. He wasn't the same man who'd once confused lust with love. He'd never make that mistake again.
FOUR
CARRIE DIDN'T WANT TYSON to know that her hands were shaking with nerves. She wanted him to think she ate men like him for dinner. The truth was she had never called the shots with a man. If a boyfriend liked his steaks rare, she sucked down bloody meat. If he was a well-done kind of guy, she chewed burned beef for hours. God forbid she actually impose her will on anyone.
But the new, sensual Carrie wanted to know: Would sex with a
stranger be better than sex with a boyfriend?
How hard could he make her come? Would he use his hands? Or his tongue?
Would he be satisfied with missionary position, or would he tie her wrists to his bedposts? She'd never had naughty thoughts like this before. They made her feel wicked and, well, wonderful. No wonder Vanessa always seemed to be having so much fun.
Her hands now steady, she licked her lips and grabbed the soft cotton of Tyson's T-shirt. "May I?" she said in a husky voice.
Tyson didn't say anything, he simply looked at her hard, his
eyes burning straight into her core. She held her breath, willing herself not to run as fast as she could back to the hotel if he said, "No thanks. Let's just eat dinner:' The seconds ticked, by and she was about to drop her hands from his shirt when he said, "Go for it:'
Letting out her breath, she pulled the faded red fabric out
from the waistband of his jeans. Relishing every second of the foreplay that she was actually instigating, Carrie pulled the soft cotton up his stomach, revealing his impressive six-pack. Holding the fabric halfway up his chest, she gave in to the irrepressible urge to kneel down at his feet and gently press her lips against his hot, tanned flesh.
Tyson groaned and threaded his hands through her hair. His thigh muscles tensed against her forearms as her tongue shot out of its own accord to taste him, falling into the lower groove of his abdomen. Her hands slid up beneath his shirt as she tried to memorize every inch of his chest and stomach by touch. As she stood back up, she pulled his T-shirt off, past his broad shoulders, over his head. He didn't smile, he didn't move to kiss her. Instead he let her take charge of the dance.
When she was finally face-to-face with him, she stepped back
and ran her hands over him, watching his chest rise and fall. He was beautiful, so beautiful that she was practically melting with need. They hadn't kissed, he hadn't so much as touched her, yet she was on the verge of falling apart.
She brushed the tips of her fingers up the side of his neck, and
several taut cords sprang to the surface. His skin was so warm, so silky. As she got closer to his jaw, his skin grew rougher with a faint five o'clock shadow.
Before she was aware enough to stop them, the words "1 want to feel your stubble against the inside of my thighs" were out of her mouth. Tyson's eyes lit up, and that gorgeous half grin emerged across his full lips again.
Carrie's fingers stilled on the hollow of Tyson's cheek. "Did I say that out loud?" she whispered. One large, callused hand covered hers as the other moved
around to the small of her back, pulling her closer. "You did. And I was thinking exactly the same thing:' Her insecurity was replaced with a rush of lust, but before she
Carrie had never felt more like a bumbling fool. What had happened to the cool, poised woman who could effortlessly entertain a party of one hundred and make each one feel like the guest of honor? Frankly, she wished a mountain lion had eaten her, thereby saving her from being a complete idiot all night. So much for convincing Tyson to have a dirty weekend with her.
She put her glass down on the pine coffee table, walked to the rail of the deck, and took a deep breath of country air. Dried hay mixed with newly crushed grapes was a heady, sweet scent. She decided that no matter what, she was going to keep it together from here on out. But when Tyson came up behind her, holding two glasses, and said, "I've got a special new Pinot I'd like you to taste," the prim-and-proper voices in her head gave way.
Here was a man who oozed raw, masculine sex appeal. And somewhere within Carrie, there was a powerfully sexual woman dying to get out.
So Carrie turned to him and said, "I'd rather taste you instead."
A LOUD ROAR filled Tyson's head as all the blood in his body rushed to his cock.
Had she actually said she wanted to taste him?
It was obvious with just one glance, one word from her incredibly seductive mouth, that Carrie Anderson was wealthy, polished, and sophisticated. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her fingers so long and graceful that he couldn't help picturing them gripping his cock. He grew another inch behind his zipper and shifted to get comfortable, looking away from her hands. But that brought him right back to her mouth, to her red lips, just made for sucking-
His penis was running away ,with itself. Hadn't he learned the hard way that a guy like him, with dirt under his nails, who preferred being outside in the fields to sitting in a stuffy theater suffering through a symphony, had no business being with a woman like Carrie?
And that comment about lower profits due to organic farming ... it was exactly what his ex had said. For three years she'd tried to convince him to abandon his meticulous planting techniques, his organic pesticides, in favor of more grapes, more cases, more money. Marriage was forever, and Tyson had figured that every couple had things to work out, so he'd tried to see her point. Heck, he'd considered planting an acre of quick-to-profit Merlot to make Kimberly happy, but the only thing she'd been happy doing had been sleeping with his right-hand man.
He'd made the mistake of dating, and marrying, a money hungry, status-concerned woman before. And it had bit him in the ass. Hard.
Then again, he didn't want Carrie for marriage, did he? And he was betting that a woman like her might want to slum it for a weekend with a guy like him, without ever contemplating a relationship on Monday morning. All in all, a perfect arrangement.
He'd gone long enough without a woman. So when Carrie deftly plucked the stems of the balloon wineglasses from his hands, put them on the porch rail, and looked back up at him with a wicked gleam in her beautiful eyes, Tyson gave in.
He was going to let her have her way with him. And maybe later, if things went really well, they could play out some of the increasingly elaborate scenes in his head where she was the naughty grape stealer and he was punishing her with the flat of his hand against her soft, round ass. He wasn't the same man who'd once confused lust with love. He'd never make that mistake again.
FOUR
CARRIE DIDN'T WANT TYSON to know that her hands were shaking with nerves. She wanted him to think she ate men like him for dinner. The truth was she had never called the shots with a man. If a boyfriend liked his steaks rare, she sucked down bloody meat. If he was a well-done kind of guy, she chewed burned beef for hours. God forbid she actually impose her will on anyone.
But the new, sensual Carrie wanted to know: Would sex with a
stranger be better than sex with a boyfriend?
How hard could he make her come? Would he use his hands? Or his tongue?
Would he be satisfied with missionary position, or would he tie her wrists to his bedposts? She'd never had naughty thoughts like this before. They made her feel wicked and, well, wonderful. No wonder Vanessa always seemed to be having so much fun.
Her hands now steady, she licked her lips and grabbed the soft cotton of Tyson's T-shirt. "May I?" she said in a husky voice.
Tyson didn't say anything, he simply looked at her hard, his
eyes burning straight into her core. She held her breath, willing herself not to run as fast as she could back to the hotel if he said, "No thanks. Let's just eat dinner:' The seconds ticked, by and she was about to drop her hands from his shirt when he said, "Go for it:'
Letting out her breath, she pulled the faded red fabric out
from the waistband of his jeans. Relishing every second of the foreplay that she was actually instigating, Carrie pulled the soft cotton up his stomach, revealing his impressive six-pack. Holding the fabric halfway up his chest, she gave in to the irrepressible urge to kneel down at his feet and gently press her lips against his hot, tanned flesh.
Tyson groaned and threaded his hands through her hair. His thigh muscles tensed against her forearms as her tongue shot out of its own accord to taste him, falling into the lower groove of his abdomen. Her hands slid up beneath his shirt as she tried to memorize every inch of his chest and stomach by touch. As she stood back up, she pulled his T-shirt off, past his broad shoulders, over his head. He didn't smile, he didn't move to kiss her. Instead he let her take charge of the dance.
When she was finally face-to-face with him, she stepped back
and ran her hands over him, watching his chest rise and fall. He was beautiful, so beautiful that she was practically melting with need. They hadn't kissed, he hadn't so much as touched her, yet she was on the verge of falling apart.
She brushed the tips of her fingers up the side of his neck, and
several taut cords sprang to the surface. His skin was so warm, so silky. As she got closer to his jaw, his skin grew rougher with a faint five o'clock shadow.
Before she was aware enough to stop them, the words "1 want to feel your stubble against the inside of my thighs" were out of her mouth. Tyson's eyes lit up, and that gorgeous half grin emerged across his full lips again.
Carrie's fingers stilled on the hollow of Tyson's cheek. "Did I say that out loud?" she whispered. One large, callused hand covered hers as the other moved
around to the small of her back, pulling her closer. "You did. And I was thinking exactly the same thing:' Her insecurity was replaced with a rush of lust, but before she
