Deep Breath (15 page)

She shuddered, felt herself grow damp and hungry. His mouth drifted lower, moving from her neck and chest to the swell of one breast. He cupped her in one hand, squeezed, kneaded, finally wrapped his tongue around her nipple and sucked her between his lips.

She whimpered, arched into his mouth, rubbed herself against his leg in desperation. She
was
desperate. She could not believe the pulse of sensation sweeping her along. She tingled and she burned. And no matter how much he gave her, she could not get enough of Harry’s mouth.

He’d moved to her other breast, suckling, nipping, then slid further down her body, kissing her ribs and her belly, teasing her navel with his tongue. All the while stroking his hands along her sides, over her chest, down her hips. He massaged and manipulated and played.

And she wasn’t lying beneath him like a bump on a log. She was feeling. She was moving. She was trembling beneath his touch. She was loving every moment of what he was making her feel. She was involved, and she wanted him with an incredible sense of everything in her world being right.

She flexed her fingers at her sides, spreading them wide, then pulling them in to claw at the sheet. She opened her eyes and stared straight up at the darkened ceiling, conscious of nothing but Harry’s heat and touch.

He held her hips, his fingers gouging her muscles, his thumbs hooked just above her bones. His beard scratched against her belly when he kissed her there. Tiny kisses. Sucking kisses. Long, slow kisses with a whole lot of tongue.

He had to know how wet she was, he had to know how ready. He had to be able to smell her, moving down her body, taking his own sweet time. His patience amazed her, as did his attention. She was so used to sex being a sprint, not a marathon.

She didn’t know if her heart would survive. It felt on the verge of exploding in her chest. And then her condition worsened. Harry got up on his knees and knelt between her thighs.

She shuddered, shivered. He leaned down and kissed the crease of her thigh, one side, then the other, so close to where she wanted him, so far away. He came closer, slipped his palms beneath her buttocks, slid his thumbs into her sex on either side of her entrance, and opened her for his tongue.

He pierced her, pushed deep inside, pulled back, licked through her folds, sucked on her lips. She gasped. She panted. She drew up her knees and held her ankles at her hips, giving him better access, more room to play.

He played by using his tongue, circling the tip around the knot of her clit, pressing the flat through her folds. She arched up. He pushed her back down, moving one hand to her belly to hold her in place.

And then that hand, that thumb began to play, too, fluttering over her clit like soft butterfly wings, barely touching, teasing, causing her clit to tighten, her nipples to tingle, the moisture from her sex to flow.

It wasn’t enough, and she begged, grinding against him, flexing and clenching, widening her legs. She was ready. Surely he knew she was ready. She started to tell him exactly what she needed him to do, where she wanted him to touch, to tickle her, to soothe her ache.

But he was there, pressing along the side of her clit with his thumb and sucking her into his mouth, pulling, teething, rolling with his tongue. She cried out, thrust upward. He answered by tugging his other hand from beneath her bottom and pushing a finger inside her.

He crooked it, stroked her G-spot. The sensations brought her hips off the bed. She came then, a flood, drowning. She almost couldn’t breathe. He continued to finger her, pulling back only when her muscles no longer squeezed his fingers, when her shudders faded, when she collapsed beneath him.

She couldn’t even move. She knew he had reached for a condom, sensed him rolling it on, and shivered anew at the thought of his body entering hers, of how much of him she had to explore.

When he crawled over her, she took his weight gladly. He leaned to the side on one elbow, reached between their bodies and guided his cock into place. She felt that first breach of his head and moaned, drawing her knees to her chest as he pressed forward.

He filled her, stretched her, pulled out and pushed in, his head scraping over her sensitive flesh inside, his shaft grinding against her clit. She hooked her heels behind his thighs, wrapped her hands around his biceps, and held on.

As if he understood that she was giving him her body to use, he started to thrust, slowly at first, picking up speed and force, driving himself into her and nearly taking her off the bed. He pumped in and out, his elbows above her shoulders on the bed, his fists clenching the pillows on either side of her head, his face buried against her neck.

His rhythm was fierce, powerful, his thrusts hard and intense, his entire body taut. She felt the strain beneath her palms. But she felt it most of all in his center as the pressure built to a furiously full head.

And just when she thought neither of them would make it out of this alive, he came. A sound of relieved agony rolled up from his gut. He spilled it into the pillow while spilling the fluids from his body into hers. And before he had even rolled away, she fell fast asleep.

11:00
P.M.

Standing beneath the spray in the hotel room’s shower, Harry let the heat of the pounding water steam the wrinkles from his mind. Some kind of operative he was, losing his way, allowing his plans to go awry, his mission to take a backseat to a woman. Her needs. His need for her.

He ducked his head, braced his hands on the tile so the water pummeled his neck and shoulders. It was the closest he could get to having the sense God gave a billy goat beat back into him.

Had he been in Manhattan, he could easily have taken on one of his SG-5 partners in the company gym’s sparring ring. Or even gone a few rounds with a punching bag. Whatever it took to straighten out the kink in his obviously twisted priorities.

This was not why Hank Smithson had hired him. He was supposed to be levelheaded and on the ball, pulling tricks from a hat when his fellow operatives needed the help of his magic—not whipping his dick out of his pants because the woman he was working with had brought him to his knees.

But, hell. Look at her. And she thought she wasn’t a good time. If she were any more of one, he would never have made it from the bed to the bath on his feet. As it was, leaving her behind had made him want to crawl—and bawl—like a baby.

He turned around, stepped forward, let the pulsing spray do its work on the muscles of his lower back. Damn if she hadn’t nearly killed him. What an enigma. So shy and hesitant and so…not. She was a hellcat, one of the most with-it women he’d ever met, yet she had no awareness of her sexual appeal. None. Zero. Zilch.

The Georgia he’d just made love to, whom he’d left sleeping in the tangle of covers they’d made, didn’t fit at all with the Georgia he’d brought off at the gallery. She was no less responsive, but tonight she’d seemed vulnerable, certain of disappointing him—and of being disappointed. He knew for a fact neither of them had come anywhere close.

He didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all. What he did get was that his feelings for her were about to set up a big roadblock between what they were working on together on a personal plane and what he’d been sent here to do.

He was too wrapped up in her search, and had stopped focusing on his. If he didn’t start using the head he was paid to use and keep the other one tucked away, he was definitely going to be looking a pink slip in the eye.

He had his eyes closed, his head down, one hand on the wall at his side, the other wrapped around the rod holding the shower curtain. He couldn’t hear anything but the running water. Not the door opening and closing, not Georgia’s bare feet on the floor.

But he knew she was there. When she stepped into the tub, the hook nearest his hand slid closer. When she tugged the curtain back into place, it slid away.

It was a wide tub, luxury-sized, and if she had on her mind what her joining him in the shower brought to his, room to move was going to be a very good thing.

Still, he kept his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see her. He wanted the fantasy of simply knowing she was there, of wondering what she planned to do, of waiting. He sensed her movements, and he smelled her. She smelled like sex; his blood began flowing south, and his flagpole to rise.

The musky, earthy scents of shared fluids and sweat—hey, he wasn’t exactly smelling like a rose—faded when she picked up the soap and begin to suds up the bar by rubbing it over his chest. Her hands were nimble, deft, scrubbing over his neck and shoulders, down his arms, through his armpits before moving from his ribs to his abs.

That was when she dropped to her knees. He held back a groan. Or at least he tried. It was a sound of anticipation and it echoed when he let it go. She said nothing, made no response.

All she did was run her slick soapy hands over his calves, his knees, his thighs, moving ever closer to—but never touching—the one spot where he most wanted her attention. The spot aching to feel her fingers and her tongue. The spot on his body that was the filthiest of all and needed a thorough washing.

He wanted to laugh. Instead he growled. He’d meant what he’d told her about the best sex happening between the ears. And right now, the nasty, dirty thoughts filling his head proved it needed to be cleaned.

But then she took him into her hand, and he couldn’t think of anything else but her touch. She soaped him up, stroked him. He thrust against her palm. She let go, moving deeper between his legs, sudsing up his balls and sliding two fingers between the cheeks of his ass.

And if all of that wasn’t enough to make him beg like a starving dog, she stayed to play, bringing along the strand of pearls as she took his cock into her mouth, one hand wrapped around his shaft just beneath the head.

She did wicked, evil things with her tongue, swirling it around the ridge and seam, running the flat over the cap of his head, piercing his slit with the tip. He had to let go of the curtain rod when it began to give beneath the strain as he tried to hold on.

He looked down then because he had to, and then he wished he hadn’t. It had been bad enough feeling her hands and her lips. But seeing it…seeing her, her dark hair slick to her head, soap and water sliding over the pink centers of her breasts, the swell of her tummy hiding the thatch of dark hair beneath.

And then seeing her mouth wrapped around his cock, her fingers ringing him, those he couldn’t see rubbing the strand of dangling pearls over his thighs, his cheeks, even his puckered rear hole.

She swirled the tiny hard beads around and around, sucking him hard as she pressed up against that sensitive spot. The combination was too much. He swore he was going to get her back. But getting her back was going to have to wait until he got off.

She rolled the pearls over his ass, the hard ridge of his erection, wrapped them like a cock ring around his sac and the base of his shaft. She held the constriction tight, loosened it, sucked him and squeezed him until he couldn’t take it anymore.

He came, screwing his eyes shut as the white hot bursts pulsed free. She licked him clean, milked him with her mouth, taking it all until he hadn’t a drop of cum left to give. He shuddered, felt the give of his knees, and leaned back into the wall.

She got to her feet and stepped into the spray, saying nothing, eyes closed as she reached for the small bottle of shampoo and washed her hair. He bent, reaching for the pearls she’d left on the floor of the tub, continuing to watch her bathe as he cleaned them.

She turned her back to him and rinsed her hair, her raised arms showing off the lean muscles in her shoulders and across her upper back, showing too the long line of her torso as it curved into her ass.

He was having a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself, his cock thickening again while he took her all in. She stepped around, sputtered when the water hit her in the face. He grinned because everything about her made him want to do just that.

And then he moved in. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and brought her flush to his body. He also brought his mouth down to hers, tasting the salty hint of his own release but tasting more fully her sweetness and all the things about her that were good.

She whimpered and moaned, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely, her tongue tangling with his, sweeping through his mouth, her fingers kneading the muscles of his shoulders and neck. He grunted; her touch, her tongue, felt so good.

And then he slid his hand between their bodies and rubbed the pearls over one of her breasts, teasing her gumdrop nipple with the tiny little balls. She squirmed, bit at his lip, and he took the pearls lower, wrapping the strand around the fingers he slid between her pussy’s folds.

He rubbed the necklace like a slick sex toy around her clit, over her lips, massaging them against her entrance until she dug her nails into his skin and tried to climb her way up his body. That was when he got serious, pushing two of his pearl-wrapped fingers into her sweet cunt, rubbing her G-spot while doing the same to her clit with his thumb.

He kissed her, fucked her with his fingers, moved his other hand down her back to her ass, squeezing, kneading, slipping between her cheeks to press against her puckered opening the way she’d done with him. And all the while rubbing his aching cock against the warm wet skin of her belly.

The water beat down, the steam rose, and Georgia cried out, holding onto his shoulders as she came. She shook, quivered, reached down to where his thumb worked her clit and finished the job herself.

And then she reached for the bottle of conditioner, squeezed out a dollop, and grabbed his cock, slicking her palm over the head, around and around, and jerking him off.

He shouldn’t have been able to come as fast as he did. He’d barely had time to recover his strength from the last two times. Didn’t matter. He shot it all into her hand and over her belly, grinding against her and holding her close, his cheek next to hers, one hand cupping her head.

And then he heard her crying. Tiny sobs that he hoped to hell were either joy or exhaustion because those were the two sensations sucking him down. He held her, rinsed her, rinsed himself, turned off the water and dried them both.

Then he took her by the hand and dragged her back to bed, pulling the covers up to their heads and spooning himself around her. They would talk tomorrow. They had to. And they wouldn’t talk about tonight. They would talk about business, about their plans for the day.

They would put the last few hours behind them, chalk them up to a much needed release from a hell of a day. Yeah. That’s exactly what they’d do. Exactly. And he reminded himself for a third time when she sighed and snuggled against him, causing a burning, aching hitch in his heart.