Protector for Hire by Tawna Fenske

digging hard into his tailbone. He was dimly aware of a damp heat pressing against the thin fabric that separated them, and the knowledge of how wet she was made him want her more. He slid one hand down the side of the bulky sweatshirt, then under the hem and up again. She was still wearing that damn flimsy tank top, but his fingers found the hem of that, too, tunneling up and under it before his brain could catch up and tell him it was a really dumb idea.
    He was cupping her breast in his palm now, the weight of it making him insane with need. His thumb found her nipple and stroked it, making her cry out against his mouth.
    “Don’t stop,” she gasped, and threw her head back, smacking it against the mirror.
    He started to pull away, to check and make sure she was okay, but she gripped his hair tight between her fingers and forced him to meet her eyes.
    “Don’t even fucking think about it,” she said. “I’m fine, I am not hurt, but I will be in serious agony if you take your hands off my body for any reason at all.”
    “Right,” he growled. “Can’t argue with that.”
    One of his hands was still cupping her breast while the other twined in her hair. He released his grip on her head and grabbed the hem of her sweatshirt. His sweatshirt.
    “Never said you could borrow this,” he muttered.
    “My mistake,” she said, smiling up at him with her eyes flashing in a beam from the skylight overhead. “Better take it back.”
    “My pleasure,” he said, and yanked it over her head.
    She laughed as he tossed the garment aside and started to reach for her again. But she was already grabbing the hem of her pink top, pulling it off before he could ask himself if this was a good idea.
    “Great idea.” He claimed her mouth again.
    His hands covered her bare breasts as his brain registered the fact that he had a beautiful woman on his bathroom counter wearing nothing but a tiny, silky pair of shorts. Panties, really, that’s pretty much all they were. He was still wearing boxers and the flannel shirt, but Janelle seemed determined to remedy that. She clawed at the shirt, yanking it off his shoulders so hard he thought he heard something rip.
    Schwartz closed his eyes and began kissing his way down her throat, his lips and teeth and tongue devouring every inch of warm flesh he encountered. Her breasts were weighty in his palms, and he was dying to taste them. He slid his tongue over her nipple, making slow circles as she gripped the back of his head and arched against him. She cried out as he moved to the other side, licking and sucking and feeling her writhe against him.
    She had a death grip on the back of his head with one hand, but he felt the other hand sliding over the front of his boxers. Her fingers gripped him through the thin fabric of his shorts, and he bit back a curse as she began to stroke him.
    “So it’s true what they say about a guy with big hands and big feet,” she murmured against his throat.
    Schwartz licked the underside of her breast, making her groan. “Big gloves and big boots?”
    She laughed and kissed the spot where his neck met his shoulder, then kept going, kissing his throat, his jaw, his ear; all the while her hand was making him mindless as she touched and stroked and teased him through his boxers.
    Then her hands were slipping beneath the elastic of his waistband, sliding lower and lower until—
    “Christ,” he hissed as she began to stroke him. His brain was flashing back to high school summers of heavy petting in the back of a beatup truck, but his body assured him no teenage grope-fest compared to the magic Janelle was working with her hand.
    He closed his eyes, wondering if he’d ever felt anything this good in his whole damn life. Her palm was soft and her grip was firm and somewhere in the middle of all that was the most perfect sensation he could imagine. He heard himself groaning as she pushed his boxers down his thighs, shoving them aside as she continued moving her