Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [16]
He tasted like beer. And cigarettes. And sin, sweet sin. The baddest of all bad boys, and he was kissing her, his mouth moving slowly over her closed lips, his hand pressing hers against his hot skin, holding it there. She closed her eyes, telling herself this wasn’t happening, and since it wasn’t, she wasn’t doing anything wrong or dangerous, and she could just lean back against the ratty leather seat and let him kiss her. He lifted his head.
“Is that the way you kiss your boyfriends?”
The nice dreamlike haze vanished, and she opened her eyes, trying to sit up. He held her down. “I know there’ve been boyfriends,” he continued, and she realized he was moving her hand across his stomach, in slow, erotic circles. “Nate’s told me all about them. Jimmy McCarty and Jay Thompson. You have lousy taste in boys.”
“Is that why I’m here with you?” she said.
“Kitten’s got claws,” he murmured. “Open your mouth when I kiss you.”
“I don’t like that.”
“Tough. You’re playing with grown-ups now. This is how we do it in the big leagues.” He pushed her back against the seat and forced her mouth open before she could come up with another protest. He kissed her, using his tongue, slowly, thoroughly, and she felt a heat begin to pool in her stomach, radiating outward. Dillon Gaynor definitely knew how to kiss. What had been wet and sloppy with Jimmy was slow and mesmerizing with Dillon. She hadn’t even realized he’d released her hand, and she was slowly caressing the warm skin of his stomach, until she felt his hand on the waist of her jeans, heard the rasp of her zipper as his hand slipped inside.
She panicked. It didn’t do her any good, he was too strong for her. His mouth silenced any protest, his body pressing against hers kept her from escaping, and his hands, his fingers, slid beneath her plain cotton panties to touch her.
She had the strength to wrench her mouth away from his. “Stop it,” she whispered. “Let me go.” She could have screamed, maybe. But she didn’t want to.
He pushed her face against his shoulder, his mouth by her ear, and he took a small, wicked bite of her earlobe. “Just relax,” he said. “Consider this a graduation present.”
“But I didn’t graduate,” she murmured in a dazed voice.
“You’re about to.”
One of her hands was trapped beneath their bodies, but she wrenched the other free to grab his shoulder and try to push him away. He didn’t budge.
“Close your eyes, baby girl,” he whispered. “I’m about to show you a very good time.”
There was nothing she could do to stop him—he was too strong, too determined, and he knew exactly what he was doing. He pushed his fingers inside her, and she wanted to die of shame. And he was rubbing her, using his thumb, and she knew what he was trying to do, but she couldn’t even do it on her own, much less with a stranger touching her, inside her, rubbing her until she moaned.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” he whispered. “That’s what I want to hear from you. Just a little bit louder.”
She bit her lip to keep from making any sound, but it didn’t do any good. She felt a spasm of reaction wash over her, and she shivered, her voice choked.
“Better,” he murmured. “But I think I want to make you cry.”
“Dillon,” she said in a cracked voice. Begged, though she wasn’t sure what she was begging for.
But Dillon knew. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, how to make her shiver and teeter on the very precipice, and then draw back, only to bring her forward again, stronger than ever, and she wanted to weep.
“Come on, baby girl,” he whispered in her ear. “Let go. Stop fighting me, stop fighting it. Come for me.”
She didn’t have any choice. It washed over her like an explosive force, as her body arched, rigid, and she wanted to scream, to cry, to make it stop, to make it last forever. It was too powerful, too overwhelming, and she let out a low, keening cry that he swallowed with his mouth, keeping her silent as he prolonged her orgasm past human endurance.
And then she collapsed beneath