In For the Kill by Shannon McKenna

it’s amazing how having your naked tits at mouth level really takes the sting off that remark.”
    She shook with silent giggles as he pressed his face to her chest.
    It felt so good. Shivering torment, his slow, sensual kisses, trailing tenderly over and under and around her breasts. The energy that charged her body was building into something frightening, unknown in scope. She squeezed her legs around the hot, unstable glow.
    He pulled her hand down and wrapped her fingers around his cock. “Pet me,” he said hoarsely. “Get acquainted.”
    She did so, exploring him timidly. He was so thick. Taut and hot. His pulse thrummed against her palm. The skin of his cock was so tender, a velvet sheath over that rigid core, flushed and reddened.
    â€œRelax,” he said gently.
    His voice jolted her back to awareness of herself. “Hmmm?”
    â€œYour legs. They’re clamped shut. Like a vise. Try to relax.”
    â€œOh.” It was true. Her thighs trembled with strain. She was squeezing that sweet glow deep inside, keeping it armored by muscular tension. Keeping it hidden and secret. Safe from harm.
    But that was for lying in bed reading sexy novels, not for going to bed with a real man. She would have to open up. God, so much could go wrong, she couldn’t even imagine how it ever could go right.
    But she kept petting him, with greedy fascination. Following her instincts, following his rough gasps and shudders and groans.
    His calluses rasped against her inner thigh, catching on the thin nylon of her stocking. He clasped the top of her thigh, just resting his hand, letting her feel his heat, his strength. His immense patience.
    That patience made it possible to relax. Open her legs for him.
    He sighed against her chest, and his hand ventured between her thighs, stroking her mound as if it were a shy kitten. His fingers tangled tenderly into her muff, petting gently without penetrating. Every faintest, glancing touch moved her, melted her.
    His hand ventured deeper, and her thighs clenched around it, reflexively. His hand remained wedged between them, and he smiled at her as his long forefinger lazily stroked up and down the length of her labia. Up . . . down. Slow and gentle. Teasing, promising, reassuring.
    â€œYou’re so wet.” His voice sounded gravelly.
    Oh, thank God for that. At least one part of the mechanism was in working order. She clutched his shoulders, clenched around his delving, stroking, clever fingers, gasping. Everywhere he touched or stroked or kissed came magically to life, blooming into brightness, full color, and it was a train barreling toward her now, certain annihilation, but it was too late to turn back, it was . . . oh.
    It tore through her, shattering the world.
    When she came back from that other, mindless, other-worldly place, her eyes fluttered open. She felt empty. Light and soft, diffuse. She could float on a breeze, like goose down. Dandelion fluff.
    â€œSo sweet,” he murmured against her throat. His tongue rasped tenderly up the tendon in her neck, licking her sweat as if it were some magic substance that he craved. “God, that was good.”
    Then he cupped her breast again, and his arms slid around her, clasping her as he suckled her nipples again.
    Sweet? Not sweet. It was total obliteration of self. But here she was, same old Sveti. Fears and problems and hang-ups fully intact.
    â€œReady to open up a little more?” His voice was low and careful, as if she were an easily spooked horse.
    It embarrassed her to be so twitchy, which put the edge in her voice. “I have to, right? For this to work?”
    His eyebrow tilted up. “I wasn’t the one who engineered the design of human sexuality,” he said. “It’s not my fault I’m the one with the dick, so don’t even try to make me feel guilty about it.”
    Stellar. Perfect. Very smooth. “I’m not,” she said. “I’m just