dance?" She tilted her head, lowered her lashes, and gave him a quizzical look.
He grinned, shucked out of his jeans, and peeled off his briefs.
She stared, licked her lips. Clean, lean, hard, and waiting. For her. He was beyond magnificent. The last thing she wanted was to turn her back to him. But when he smiled at her and made a circle with his hand, she raised her hands, joined them above her head, and began a slow rotation.
When her back was to him, he came up behind her and put his hands on her waist. He kissed her nape, her shoulder, his breath hot and steamy against her sensitized skin.
He slipped down her panties, placed his hand over her pubis, cupped her, and pressed his stone-hard length against her buttocks.
"Perfect," he whispered into her hair, his voice low and ragged. "You're perfect." He held her for a long moment, his mouth wild and heated against her skin, his chest burning against her back.
He drew circles around a nipple with one hand and ran the index finger of the other through the slick folds between her thighs. She gasped, rapt by the dual assault, burned into place, her body stiff with anticipation.
"Spread your legs, sweetheart. Let me touch you. Feel you. Inside."
Ginger's stomach clenched, the shock and promise of his words sizzling along her nerves to the apex of her thighs. She raised her arms, clasped him behind the neck, and gave him open access to her. He shifted the hand playing with her breasts to her tummy, pressed her back against him. He held her there, while his other hand slid a warm path down, first to simply enfold her, then to boldly explore her cleaved sex.
Deeply.
Then to find her clitoris, its peak a hard, anxious nub, shuddering and moist.
Ginger, her breathing nothing more than gasps and pants, moved her hips in the tempo set by his hand, let her body make love to his probing touch, every bone and muscle coming meltingly alive under the slip and glide of his deft fingers.
"I want to taste you," he whispered. "I want my mouth on these lips"—he stroked her labia with one finger... richly, languorously, then used two to separate her, enter and tease—"this drenched flesh. Can't even describe it." His voice was midnight dark, uneven when he added, "You want that, too, don't you?"
Ginger's body arched and her mind leaped to the vision of Cal's fingers spreading her wide for his mouth to take and taste. She shuddered, desire a torch on her skin. But...
No. No. Not yet.
If Cal Beaumann gave her that, she'd die from it. Then he'd be gone.
Cal nipped her shoulder, spun her to face him, and took her face in his hands. He kissed, devoured her, his hot mouth and tongue taking her to a place the fierce, often too-rash-for-her-own-good Ginger Cameron had never been, and as close to sexual paradise as she'd ever be.
They fell on the bed in a tangle of need and overheated limbs, and Cal claimed a nipple to suckle with surprising gentleness.
When he started to move down, Ginger grasped his taut buttocks, slipped a hand under him and clasped his powerful erection. He was rock hard and ready. "I want this," she demanded and made a sheath of her hand, fitting it to his engorged width, then alternately tightening and easing the pressure.
Cal lifted himself above her, his breathing stopped, and he went stone still. He closed his eyes, his whole body plank hard, his neck muscles corded tight to his shoulder blades. She stroked him. He opened his eyes to look down at her, his gaze opaque, ebony black. "Ginger, I need to fuck you. Now."
She tightened her fingers around him, the delicate skin over his rock-hard penis petal-soft in her hand, its tip oozing life into her palm.
She squeezed and pumped him, her own hunger shifting to critical. She opened her mouth. No words. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucked, rasped it with his tongue. The sensation knifed down, down; moisture seeped between her thighs. He lifted his head, and his dark eyes settled on hers even as his sex
He grinned, shucked out of his jeans, and peeled off his briefs.
She stared, licked her lips. Clean, lean, hard, and waiting. For her. He was beyond magnificent. The last thing she wanted was to turn her back to him. But when he smiled at her and made a circle with his hand, she raised her hands, joined them above her head, and began a slow rotation.
When her back was to him, he came up behind her and put his hands on her waist. He kissed her nape, her shoulder, his breath hot and steamy against her sensitized skin.
He slipped down her panties, placed his hand over her pubis, cupped her, and pressed his stone-hard length against her buttocks.
"Perfect," he whispered into her hair, his voice low and ragged. "You're perfect." He held her for a long moment, his mouth wild and heated against her skin, his chest burning against her back.
He drew circles around a nipple with one hand and ran the index finger of the other through the slick folds between her thighs. She gasped, rapt by the dual assault, burned into place, her body stiff with anticipation.
"Spread your legs, sweetheart. Let me touch you. Feel you. Inside."
Ginger's stomach clenched, the shock and promise of his words sizzling along her nerves to the apex of her thighs. She raised her arms, clasped him behind the neck, and gave him open access to her. He shifted the hand playing with her breasts to her tummy, pressed her back against him. He held her there, while his other hand slid a warm path down, first to simply enfold her, then to boldly explore her cleaved sex.
Deeply.
Then to find her clitoris, its peak a hard, anxious nub, shuddering and moist.
Ginger, her breathing nothing more than gasps and pants, moved her hips in the tempo set by his hand, let her body make love to his probing touch, every bone and muscle coming meltingly alive under the slip and glide of his deft fingers.
"I want to taste you," he whispered. "I want my mouth on these lips"—he stroked her labia with one finger... richly, languorously, then used two to separate her, enter and tease—"this drenched flesh. Can't even describe it." His voice was midnight dark, uneven when he added, "You want that, too, don't you?"
Ginger's body arched and her mind leaped to the vision of Cal's fingers spreading her wide for his mouth to take and taste. She shuddered, desire a torch on her skin. But...
No. No. Not yet.
If Cal Beaumann gave her that, she'd die from it. Then he'd be gone.
Cal nipped her shoulder, spun her to face him, and took her face in his hands. He kissed, devoured her, his hot mouth and tongue taking her to a place the fierce, often too-rash-for-her-own-good Ginger Cameron had never been, and as close to sexual paradise as she'd ever be.
They fell on the bed in a tangle of need and overheated limbs, and Cal claimed a nipple to suckle with surprising gentleness.
When he started to move down, Ginger grasped his taut buttocks, slipped a hand under him and clasped his powerful erection. He was rock hard and ready. "I want this," she demanded and made a sheath of her hand, fitting it to his engorged width, then alternately tightening and easing the pressure.
Cal lifted himself above her, his breathing stopped, and he went stone still. He closed his eyes, his whole body plank hard, his neck muscles corded tight to his shoulder blades. She stroked him. He opened his eyes to look down at her, his gaze opaque, ebony black. "Ginger, I need to fuck you. Now."
She tightened her fingers around him, the delicate skin over his rock-hard penis petal-soft in her hand, its tip oozing life into her palm.
She squeezed and pumped him, her own hunger shifting to critical. She opened her mouth. No words. He took a nipple into his mouth, sucked, rasped it with his tongue. The sensation knifed down, down; moisture seeped between her thighs. He lifted his head, and his dark eyes settled on hers even as his sex
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