Hot and Haunted by Megan Hart, Saranna DeWylde, Lauren Hawkeye Page B

my nipples, and he could see just a hint of raspberry-toned flesh against the pale fabric, he clearly could no longer contain himself and reached around the warm, seemingly willing woman in his lap, filling his hands with the soft, creamy globes that were in front of him.
    I hissed in warning and, twining fingers through his, removed his hands from their busy work as he vocally protested. He fought me, but I’d always been stronger than I looked, and I was on top of him, after all.
    Half turning, my eyes glinted dangerously as Brody watched my profile, fascinated.
    “You never touch.” My voice was harsh, low, and raspy, a sultry tone that had the long length of his cock twitching against his leg. I enjoyed the feel of power as it washed over me, falling heavily like the rain outside. “You look. Look all you like, but you never touch. Not until I say that you can. Do you understand?”
    “I understand.” He swallowed past the great lump in his visibly desert-dry throat. When his fingers again twitched, wanting to feel their palms full of the soft mounds of my breasts, of my ass, he sat on them, verbally willing himself to behave.
    Once I was certain that he was still, I began to move again, pulling my dress down, down, until the entirety of my breasts, atop a smooth torso, were revealed, glistening with moisture in the hot night.
    I had said that he could look, and look he did as, under his gaze, the berry-colored buds lengthened and contracted until they were fully erect. The skin around them soft and puckered, and I imagined how sweet they would feel in his mouth. He wanted to touch them, I could tell, wanted to so badly that he thought he might die if his fingers couldn’t play over the long, hard pegs. Sensing his thoughts, I let my own hands rest on the tips that were his current fixation. As one hand strummed a rhythm on a swollen bud, the other pinched and pulled, and I could easily imagine, and hopefully so could he, that his own hands were there with mine, bringing those throaty little gasps out of my mouth and into the still air.
    Still rocking my hips, I cupped the swells of my breasts, kneading them, as I again arched above him, sliding up and down his leg in a parody of sex. The rough denim of his jeans stretched tight against his straining cock.
    “Cataracts. Blepharitis. Pterygium. Uveitis. Ptosis.” Frantically, he recited a long string of words that made no sense to me. I puzzled over it briefly until I realized that this must be his version of “thinking of baseball” to keep his staying power alive. Knowing that I had made him resort to it sent a flood of adrenaline surging into my veins.
    “Corneal ulcer. Retinal detachment.” With these last two, his excitement was back under control. I imagine he thought that he did this silently, in the confines of his own head, but I could hear the words, breathed out softly, like steam, and genuine arousal made its presence known in the dark, hidden cleft that rested between my legs.
    When I began to hike my skirt up the long thighs that looked creamy in the shadowed moonlight, he shuddered violently. “You’re killing me.”
    I laughed wickedly. “You have no idea.” My bare ass made contact with his groin, and every coherent thought flew out of my head as I wiggled my behind over his inflamed sex.
    Between gasps, I muttered, “Too bad there’s no pole in here. If there were, I could really blow your mind.” I smiled as I heard his strained gulp, and continued, “Well, perhaps we’ll have to make do.” Grasping the nearly empty bottle of wine above my body, I again arched off his thighs and began to work the bottle like the stripper’s pole at my supposed work, raising and lowering it as I needed.
    When the cool glass hit the fevered skin of my inner thighs, I hissed but quickly adjusted, rolling the bottle around the sensitive skin. When it touched my clit, I sighed out loud and pretended that I was actually who I said I was, in the midst of