Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (read the beginning after the end novel .txt) 📕

her head. And when he rubbed his chin against her, the whiskers of his goatee bristled against her hair and she couldn't help but smile.

Funny enough, but being near him was all that she needed. His silence gave her strength. He didn't pry, though she was certain he had questions. He did the only thing she wanted. He supported her and let her be.

It was when she started to move away that she realized she didn't want to. He made her feel so comfortable, as if being in his arms was where she belonged. But since that wasn't the case, it couldn't be, she wouldn't let it, she forced herself to glance back at the four camera feeds, and smiled at seeing Mick's dog nosing around near the edge of the patio.

"What's he doing?"

"How did you know—" was all she got out because once she looked back, once his gaze snagged hers and held it, she couldn't think beyond her need to kiss him.

They were so close; she still sat tucked into his body, her shoulder fitted to the pit of his arm, her bent knees propped on his thigh. His face was inches from hers, his mouth right there. All she had to do was part her lips. Instead, she looked into his eyes.

Oh, dear. Oh, my. So many things he wanted, was thinking, intended to do. She forgot that she needed air to keep from passing out. When it hit her, she sucked in a breath sharply and muttered to herself, "Oh, hell."

And then Mick came toward her, pushing her back into the corner of the love seat so slowly she wasn't sure that their descent wasn't her dragging him down. "I don't like the way you know what I'm thinking," she said, her arms coming up to loop around his neck.

"I know," he answered, bracing a forearm and his weight on the padded armrest beneath her head. His other hand he settled at her waist.

"Then why do you do it?"

"It's who I am. It's what I do."

"I'd rather you do something else."

"Only if you're sure," he said, coming nearer to nuzzle her nose with his.

She caught a whiff of maple syrup from lunch on his breath. "I am," she replied, because nothing else seemed right.

She moved one hand up to cup the back of his head, the fuzz of his hair scratching her palm, and urged him down, his mouth to hers. He was warm and familiar, and she wanted more than his kiss. She wanted his hand on her skin, and reached between them to pull her blouse from her jeans.

His tongue slid into her mouth, his hand beneath the loosened fabric. She moaned at the contact, wished she was naked, and kissed him back. His breath heated her cheek, his beard scraped her chin. The rumble that went through his body tickled her to her toes.

She shifted her legs, straightened them out so she lay beside him, enjoying the press of his body as much as the press of his mouth. And when he opened his hand over her rib cage, spread his fingers and grazed the lace cup of her bra, she rolled toward him, pressed herself into his hand.

He touched her as if he cared, gently, the touch of a lover, not a man notching the posts on his bed. She caught at his lower lip, drew it into her mouth, bathed it with her tongue. He increased the driving pressure, demanding she do the same. As if he knew she was ready. As if he knew she'd been waiting for him to ask.

He'd trapped her one hand between his good shoulder and the cushions. She reached down with the other and tugged up the hem of his T-shirt. The skin of his lower back between his fatigues and the bindings securing his ribs was smooth, resilient, the muscles beneath firm. He chuckled into her mouth as she tickled him there, and then groaned when she took her touch lower and kneaded his very fine and taut backside.

It wasn't enough, this fumbling, groping kiss. His tongue stroked hers, and she imagined the feel of it on the flesh between her legs. She hadn't enjoyed a man's mouth there in so very long. Just the thought of Mick going down and loving her there . . . She sent her tongue deeper into his mouth to find and mate with his, spread her thighs, and whimpered when he pushed a knee between them.

She rocked up against him, unprepared for the urgency of her need. He growled and tore his mouth from hers, buried his face in the crook of her neck, pushed away the cup of her bra, and squeezed the flesh of her breast. What was she doing? What? What? Closing her eyes. Reaching between her legs to rub herself with the seam of her zipper. Giving herself up to what Mick did to her body.

He slid lower, shoved her shirt higher, took her nipple into his mouth and tugged. She bit back a cry, feeling her sex swell as if he were sucking her there. It was when he rolled onto her body and settled between her spread legs that she first met the fullness of his erection. The idea of taking him into her body stole away her breath. She wedged both hands between them, cupped him, measured him, then moved her fingers again to his rump, dug in and begged him close.

This was so unfair to him, having him rock against her, arousing him, getting off without being able to truly give back. But then nothing mattered as sensations swept through her body, his hard cock on her clit as she came. There was no ripple, no buildup. It was an explosive burst of pleasure that bordered on pain.

So sudden. So intense. Moisture soaked her panties. She wanted to cry. He tongued her nipple, sucked and bit at the surrounding flesh. She felt so selfish, so relieved. She shuddered as