Read Online These Boots Were Made for Stomping by Julie Kenner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julie Kenner
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and edging under her pan ties even as his tongue tempted and teased.
He tasted salty and male and a bit like dark chocolate. Candy, she thought. De cadent and sinful, but at least this candy wasn’t fattening. She could have as much as she wanted, and then
go right back for seconds.
Boldly she pulled away from his lips, ignoring his soft growl of protest as his lips moved to her hairline, then teased the
top of her ear. She tried to concentrate on what she was doing, which was attacking his shirt. A black T-shirt made of some
unusual material, she could only assume it was an honest-to-goodness superhero garment. But despite her lifelong fascination
with comic books and superheroes, right then, she really didn’t care. All she wanted was to have that thing off him. To touch
his chest and feel his skin against hers.
With fingers trembling from desire rather than fear—was this really her?—she reached down and grabbed the bottom of the shirt,
then pulled it over his head and stole a kiss as he smiled at her.
“I was thinking that very thing,” he said, his hands leaving their soft perch on her backside, riding up and taking her own
shirt with them.
The cool air in her apartment brushed her overheated bare skin, and she shivered, goose bumps rising on her arms and belly.
She drew in a breath, her whole body trembling with desire.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and she shivered more, unable to form words; every effort was called on to help her breathe.
He reached out, his fingers twining in her hair. The soft strokes were long and sensual, but not where she wanted him. She
wanted him to feel her heat, to know just how much he was driving her nuts. She wanted it, and she knew that to have it, she
was going to have to ask. To tell him. To show him what she wanted and how she wanted it, and so help her, that wasn’t the
kind of thing she’d ever— ever —been able to do before.
With every other man in her life—and now they seemed like a large gray blur behind her—she’d laid back, letting the man take
the lead and never once saying what she wanted, what she needed.
Today, though—
Today, she took his hands in hers and moved them down, cupping his palms over her breasts, nearly melting when his sensuous
moan drifted over her, firing her libido and making her wet and silky and so very ready.
“Touch me,” she demanded, delighting in both the man and her own unfamiliar boldness. She was like a new woman, herself and
yet more, and it felt so good.
She wanted him to make her feel even better, and even though it wasn’t the kind of thing that the old Lydia did, this Lydia
reached for the button on his tight, black jeans. She fumbled a little, but managed to open it, and then reached down to find
the prize inside.
He smiled at her, slow and sultry, and she knew that she was doing the right thing. That anything would be the right thing
with this man.
And as he closed his mouth over hers, real thought escaped her, and she lost herself in a sea of sensuality and heat and sweet
sensations.
His body seemed to dance over hers, until every tiny hair follicle seemed charged with energy, and her body thrummed so tight
that any touch would send her over the edge.
It wasn’t any touch she wanted, though. She wanted him inside her, hard and deep, and then fast and wild. Any way and every way, and, so
help her, she wasn’t afraid to ask.
“Whatever the lady wants,” he said, and for the next few hours, he proved that he was a man of his word. He was a painter,
and she was his canvas, and over and over he painted such amazing bursts of light and color that she could hardly breathe,
hardly move, and she certainly couldn’t think.
“I think I’ll be the first person to die of complete and utter satisfaction,” she said sleepily, her head resting on her pillow.
Nikko lay beside her, his hand stroking the hair around her ear. “Don’t tell me you’re
He tasted salty and male and a bit like dark chocolate. Candy, she thought. De cadent and sinful, but at least this candy wasn’t fattening. She could have as much as she wanted, and then
go right back for seconds.
Boldly she pulled away from his lips, ignoring his soft growl of protest as his lips moved to her hairline, then teased the
top of her ear. She tried to concentrate on what she was doing, which was attacking his shirt. A black T-shirt made of some
unusual material, she could only assume it was an honest-to-goodness superhero garment. But despite her lifelong fascination
with comic books and superheroes, right then, she really didn’t care. All she wanted was to have that thing off him. To touch
his chest and feel his skin against hers.
With fingers trembling from desire rather than fear—was this really her?—she reached down and grabbed the bottom of the shirt,
then pulled it over his head and stole a kiss as he smiled at her.
“I was thinking that very thing,” he said, his hands leaving their soft perch on her backside, riding up and taking her own
shirt with them.
The cool air in her apartment brushed her overheated bare skin, and she shivered, goose bumps rising on her arms and belly.
She drew in a breath, her whole body trembling with desire.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and she shivered more, unable to form words; every effort was called on to help her breathe.
He reached out, his fingers twining in her hair. The soft strokes were long and sensual, but not where she wanted him. She
wanted him to feel her heat, to know just how much he was driving her nuts. She wanted it, and she knew that to have it, she
was going to have to ask. To tell him. To show him what she wanted and how she wanted it, and so help her, that wasn’t the
kind of thing she’d ever— ever —been able to do before.
With every other man in her life—and now they seemed like a large gray blur behind her—she’d laid back, letting the man take
the lead and never once saying what she wanted, what she needed.
Today, though—
Today, she took his hands in hers and moved them down, cupping his palms over her breasts, nearly melting when his sensuous
moan drifted over her, firing her libido and making her wet and silky and so very ready.
“Touch me,” she demanded, delighting in both the man and her own unfamiliar boldness. She was like a new woman, herself and
yet more, and it felt so good.
She wanted him to make her feel even better, and even though it wasn’t the kind of thing that the old Lydia did, this Lydia
reached for the button on his tight, black jeans. She fumbled a little, but managed to open it, and then reached down to find
the prize inside.
He smiled at her, slow and sultry, and she knew that she was doing the right thing. That anything would be the right thing
with this man.
And as he closed his mouth over hers, real thought escaped her, and she lost herself in a sea of sensuality and heat and sweet
sensations.
His body seemed to dance over hers, until every tiny hair follicle seemed charged with energy, and her body thrummed so tight
that any touch would send her over the edge.
It wasn’t any touch she wanted, though. She wanted him inside her, hard and deep, and then fast and wild. Any way and every way, and, so
help her, she wasn’t afraid to ask.
“Whatever the lady wants,” he said, and for the next few hours, he proved that he was a man of his word. He was a painter,
and she was his canvas, and over and over he painted such amazing bursts of light and color that she could hardly breathe,
hardly move, and she certainly couldn’t think.
“I think I’ll be the first person to die of complete and utter satisfaction,” she said sleepily, her head resting on her pillow.
Nikko lay beside her, his hand stroking the hair around her ear. “Don’t tell me you’re
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