Destiny's Chance by Cara Bristol Page A

her feet. Like this? No lead-in, no preamble. Just bam! The suddenness aroused nervousness and excitement.
    He motioned for her to precede him, and she shuffled for the bedroom, trying to decipher the meaning behind his about-face.
    A hard swat landed on her ass. She squealed.
    “There’s more where that came from if you don’t get a move on. And even more if you do.” He smiled wickedly. Problems could wait. This could not. She scurried down the hall with Chance at her heels.
    In the bedroom, he dug the chest out of the closet. Anything he chose would have been fine with her, but he selected the tawse, and her excitement spiked into the red zone. This is really happening . Oh God. Her pussy dampened, and butterflies stormed her stomach. He set the tawse on the nightstand, and it stood out stark and wicked, a shrine to naughty intent.
    He spun her around and fastened his mouth on hers, and she forgot her nervousness, focused instead on the pleasure of his kiss, the way he stroked and explored with his tongue, caressed with his lips. She moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, plastering her body to his. His cock swelled against her, sending a lustful zing through her veins.
    Chance wrapped his arms around her shoulders, almost crushing her, but she thrilled at his desire, his expression of need. He paused midkiss to murmur against her lips. “I missed you this week.”
    She’d hoped the physical intimacy of the other night would have drawn them closer, but instead there’d been a distance, fostered at least in part by his absence. He’d worked late several nights. She’d waited for him, aching; missing her had been his choice, but she said, “I missed you too,” and sought his mouth. She worked his shirt buttons loose and shoved the garment off his shoulders. He broke hold to let it fall to the floor and to tug her black knit top over her head. With the dexterity of a master, he dispensed with her bra.
    “Why do you wear that thing? You don’t need it.” He covered her breasts with his hands, his touch warm, arousing.
    “Are you saying I have small boobs?” she demanded. Her old body had been top heavy. She’d jiggled too much to go braless.
    He expelled a sigh of male exasperation. “I’m saying you have perfect tits. I like easy access.” He stroked his thumbs over her nipples, and they hardened. “See? Perfect. Perky. Cute.” He bent his head and captured one between his lips. Her clit responded to the suction with a pulse.
    He released her nipple to shove her skirt down her legs and pull off her panties. His slacks and shorts went next, and then he palmed her buttocks, holding her against his cock as he kneaded her cheeks. “Quite spankworthy.”
    Even the word made her pussy damp. Destiny slipped between their bodies to close her fingers around his cock and stroke his shaft. Precum pearled at the opening, and she swirled her thumb in the moisture, enjoying the smoothness.
    Chance sucked in a breath of air, and his head fell back. He closed his eyes; his nostrils flared. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
    Gripping him tightly, she slid her hand up and down his shaft while cupping his balls. He jerked. Pleasure skipped across his face.
    This is me, Chance. Destiny . She willed him to understand.
    His eyes flew open. A flush burned across his cheekbones.
    Me . She fondled. Me . She squeezed.
    Bending, she sucked the crown into her mouth. Me . She drew hard while continuing to stroke. She relished the difference between the petal softness of his glans, the solidness of his shaft, the heavy texture of his sac. All male. All hers. At least for now. She traced the underside of his erection with her tongue, then engulfed the head again. Chance groaned an exhortation. Her pussy answered the summons, contracting on cue. He called; she answered.
    When I’m calling you…ou…ou … Strains of Jeannette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy singing “Indian Love Call” filtered through her head. She couldn’t