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

He dipped his head, drew one peak into his mouth— tank top and all—swirled his tongue around and around until the cotton covering her breast was as wet as that covering her sex. She dug her fingertips into his biceps to hold on.

And then he released her, moved his mouth to her ear. "It tells me that I'm going to love getting you out of your clothes."

"Oh, feel free," she said, and he laughed, nipping at her earlobe, her neck, the soft skin beneath her jaw. "I'll be glad to help."

"I can manage, thanks," he replied, working his way lower, to the scoop of her neckline where he drew his tongue along the edge of the fabric and over the slope of both breasts. His fingers followed, dipping beneath to tease the tightly puckered edges of her areolas.

"Okay." She panted, whimpered. "If you're sure. It's just that you're really taking way too long."

His chuckle was more of a roar than a laugh. One that was deep and throaty and tickled her in places already aching to be scratched. "You in a hurry to get somewhere?"

Only into your bed, she thought to herself as she curled her toes in her socks. "Uh, no."

"Good." He was back to licking her now, her neck, the dip in her throat, her collarbone. His hands at her waist held her where he wanted her, where he could get to her the best. "Because I'm not going anywhere. And there's a whole night ahead."

Oh, dear. Oh, my. She wasn't going to last that long. She didn't want to last that long. She wanted to come dozens of times. She wanted to smell him and taste him and feel the hair on his belly and between his legs.

"Oh, hell." She heard herself murmur, heard Mick laugh, heard the way his breathing was already as labored as hers. And then she wondered why he was having all the fun. Who said she had to wait?

She moved her hands from his biceps to his shoulders then down to his chest, threading tufts of the silky hair in the center through her fingers, pressing the balls of her palms into his pecs until he groaned. The sound echoed in the spartan room, rumbled in the pit of her belly. She leaned forward, drawing the flat of her tongue over one of his nipples, swirling the tiny bud with the tip.

He set her away, his jaw taut, his grin equally so as he stared into her eyes. "Following my lead, eh?"

Still using her fingers to play, she shrugged with all the innocence she could manage—not an easy feat with the tension throbbing between them and the room just waiting for the shedding of their clothes. "What's good for the goose ..."

"Okay, then," he said, and laughed, his teeth white in his dangerously beautiful smile. He captured her hand and held it. "Let's see if you can keep up."

Gulp. She might have been living a life of crime for five years, but she wasn't sure she was cut out to be a pirate. At least not the brigand she'd need to be to pillage at this one's pace. His hand was already settling in the small of her back, his fingers digging for booty beneath the elastic waistband of her shorts.

Chin lifted, brows, too, she met his gaze squarely, boldly, and slipped her hands to the skin of his back exposed beneath his bandaged ribs. He was warm there, warm everywhere, muscled and healthy and resiliently taut. She couldn't get enough of touching him and didn't hesitate, didn't wait, but breeched the fabric barrier.

His grin widened. All he needed was a parrot on his shoulder and a hoop in his ear, a cutlass between his teeth. Or so she had time to think before his hands made their way into her pants. Then she couldn't think of anything but spreading her legs.

"Have I mentioned how much I like fast women?"

She pinched his ass and glared. "For a man who didn't want to talk, you're doing a lot of it."

He was taller, his arms longer, his reach much deeper than hers. His fingers found their way beneath the curve of her cheeks to all those places she wanted to give him. She pushed up to her tiptoes so he wouldn't have to work quite so hard.

"Have I mentioned how much I like it when you wet your pants?"

"Shh!" she hissed and spanked him. "If you want to talk, do it with your hands. If you must use your mouth, do it from your knees."

Laughing, he rubbed a finger around her back entrance before finding his way to the front. He circled her there, making her weep and shudder and clench long-unused muscles, then pushed inside. Oh . .. dear . . . Lord, but his finger was thick and long. She moaned, the sound starting in the pit of her belly and rolling out of her throat.

"You like?"

Why was he still talking? "You have to ask?"

He pushed in farther, pulled all the way out, found her clitoris and rubbed. "Only because you're not doing a very good job of keeping up."

"I'm selfish that way," she admitted, shivering anew. "Besides, my arms aren't as long."

He lowered his head, returned to nuzzle her ear. "Feel free to go in from the front."

The thought of touching him, fondling him, feeling all his different textures, his thickness and weight. . . Her imagination held no candle to the reality. He was so hot, felt so good. She breathed him in and slid her hands from his buttocks to his thighs, sensing his muscles seize beneath her hands, feeling the indentation at his hip where he flexed.

She also felt the edges of a bandage on his thigh. "I'm afraid I'm going to hurt you."

"If you don't hurt me, then we're not doing this right," he said, his voice a low growl, his fingers kneading the lower curves of her ass. "Please, Neva. Hurry up and hurt me."

She smiled