Somewhere on St. Thomas: A Somewhere Series Romance by Toby Neal Page A

chiseled muscles, and he felt exquisitely right against my body.
    This morning, in a final and blatant attempt at seduction, I’d left both bra and underwear off for our walk up precipitous streets to Coit Tower. It couldn’t have escaped his notice, because, even as his mouth ravaged mine deliciously against the warm stone, his hand tunneled under my shirt and traveled up my waist to cup my naked breast.
    “Oh God,” he whispered, and bent his head to bite my breast through the thin T-shirt. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” His hand massaged the full round as his mouth dampened the shirt. His teeth connected unerringly with that incredibly responsive bundle of nerves that shot pleasure straight south.
    I felt the first of what promised to be several very nice orgasms travel up my spinal column, lighting up pleasure points along the way so that I gasped, throwing my head back hard against the stone. My whole body rippled under his hand as heat dampened my thighs.
    He lifted his head, eyes hazy with desire, cheeks as flushed as mine. “I can make you come this easily?”
    “It would appear so,” I panted, and he reapplied his mouth with determination.
    I remembered this thrilling feeling. Henry had made love to my breasts one afternoon in the chill autumn light of his apartment window and had given me my first man-induced orgasm with nothing more than his mouth and my breasts.
    But it had taken a while, and both breasts, and no shirt, and some real attention to detail.
    Rafe was able to take me to that teetering edge fully clothed, in public, against the side of the Coit Tower.
    What more could he do to me, given a bed and a leisurely stretch of time?
    I pulled at him and hiked one of my skirt-clad legs up to wrap around his hips. He ground against me, kissed and ravaged me up against that wall until the gasps and cries I emitted put Meg Ryan in her breakout role to shame.
    “Yo! This is a public area!” someone hollered, and as suddenly as if ice water were doused over me, I remembered where we were—out of view, it was true, but only a few feet away from major foot traffic. I disentangled myself, peering around Rafe’s bulk to see who was snapping pictures to send to relatives of the weird goings-on in San Francisco.
    “Now you grow a sense of propriety,” he said, closing and buttoning my jean jacket over my dampened shirt, where the material had gone transparent and suck marks were clearly visible.
    I pushed away from the wall. The knee-length skirt I’d worn was rucked up where I’d lifted a leg against him, and I smoothed it down. “Sorry. I got carried away. I’m feeling a little better now.”
    “Well, I’m not,” he muttered. “I think it’s time for a little relief for both of us.” He towed me back down the sidewalk and along the steep hill to where he’d parked his old black truck. “You’re going to pay the price.”
    “Oh, good,” I said, bravado covering my thundering heart and stumbling feet. “Where are we going?”
    “Not back to the house.”
    Rafe’s room in a big old Victorian on the edge of the Cliffside neighborhood that a woman named Lisa rented out was a lovely high-ceilinged expanse at the back of the house. It seemed perfectly adequate for an afternoon of love to me, but apparently he wanted more privacy than we’d have there. I had been sleeping on a couch in a little sitting room, which, while perfectly comfortable, was not the place for my long-awaited deflowering.
    He turned the key in the rusty old truck and I got in beside him on the bench seat. Bench seats always did something to me, and today was especially bad. I really wanted him to take me on the bench seat. If not today, maybe next week. Or any day, for that matter.
    Rafe put the car in gear and set his hand, that long-fingered hand I so admired, with the slightly rough, calloused palm, on my smooth, bare thigh.
    I gasped.
    He took the hand briefly off my leg to shift gears, but other than that,