Going Down by Vonna Harper Page A

time working his fingers under the elastic. Her panties, bare inches of fragile fabric, nevertheless hindered his movement. Her opening remained sacred, virginal, cheated.
    If he too felt cheated, he gave no indication as he leaned toward her again. At the same time, a fingertip pressed down on her labia, reaching, stretching, finding moisture. Breathing rapidly, she pushed even farther forward. Her head now rested on the back of the chair, causing her to stare at the stars.
    There was just the two of them, them and the night—and hunger.
    â€œReeve, please.”
    â€œPlease what?”
    Only vaguely aware that she’d spoken, she rolled her head to the side but still couldn’t make out his features. She was limp and useless, a toy for him to play with, sex offered.
    â€œStand up.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Not waiting for her to pull herself together, he withdrew his hand but only so he could grip her upper arms and haul her to her feet. She had to spread her legs to keep from losing her balance. “Take off your shorts,” he ordered.
    Just like that? Forget foreplay?
    She was gathering her thoughts so she could tell him he was jumping the gun and she wasn’t that easy when he hooked his fingers around her shorts’ waistband and flipped the button loose. Afraid he might tear something, she slapped his hands away and handled the unzipping herself. Only then did she acknowledge a certain truth; she wasn’t any more interested in foreplay than he was.
    Glaring at him for taking her so far so fast, she nevertheless worked both the shorts and panties to her hips. Then, seeing herself from a distance, she stopped. “Why are we doing this?”
    â€œBecause we need to.”
    Ah, of course. That made all the sense in the world. She might have told him she was grateful for his wisdom if he hadn’t distracted her by again taking hold of her shorts and tugging down, taking the panties at the same time. He stopped when the garments were around her knees, his head up, eyes digging into her. “What?” she demanded.
    â€œThis.”
    With that, he planted a hand over her belly and pushed, forcing her back onto the chair. She landed with a slap of skin against waterproof material. Instead of telling him he was taking a hell of a lot for granted, she let the chair surround and support her. Watching him, she splayed her legs as much as her clothes allowed. Now what? She challenged with her eyes.
    This, he answered. Hands out, he planted one foot on the riser. Instead of reaching for her heat, he pulled up on her top so it was now bunched just below her breasts and ran his knuckles over her belly. Trying not to squirm, she again dug her nails into the chair arms. If one or more nails broke, so be it. Despite her efforts to the contrary, her lids slid over her eyes and locked her in the darkness of her mind. She couldn’t say she trusted him; how could she when things had happened so fast between them? But need powerful enough to make her think of chain and rope spun around her. For these moments she wanted only one thing—him, his body speaking to hers.
    You’re making me crazy, she thought to tell him as his finger pads traced the outline of her ribs. This was private, man and woman testing each other’s boundaries.
    Only, she acknowledged when he dipped a thumb into her navel, he was doing the testing while she sat there like some dumb beast. A dumb, turned-on beast.
    Breathing through her open mouth, she wallowed in the feel of his flesh on her skin. He seemed to be everywhere at once and yet not. Yes, he touched her from the base of her bra to just above her mons, but although she sighed and offered it to him, he didn’t touch her sex. Cruel, damn him, cruel!
    But maybe not. Maybe this was the foreplay they’d proclaimed they wanted nothing to do with.
    Unexpected laughter nearly broke free at the thought. In her professional experience, foreplay consisted of