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

to herself, her lashes fluttering as she looked down at the contrast between skin and bandages and cotton jersey, at that between his body, which was so very big, and hers, which suddenly seemed small. And then she brought both hands around to his front. Right where he wanted them.

She knew that because of the words he bit off that were sharp and raw and filled with more feeling than any soft seduction or whispered pillow talk, the words of a pirate, not a very nice man. His shaft was thick. And long. Just as she'd known it would be.

What she hadn't known was that her fingers would barely meet around him. Nor had she any idea how tight his skin would have to stretch to accommodate the blood filling the head of his cock. The slit in the tip opened. She thumbed it. He groaned, a sound he repeated, one she didn't think would fade because she had no intention of letting him go.

She reached back then, cupped his heavy balls, which tightened as she rolled them in her palm. She waited for a shudder to course through him before she released him and asked, "Am I hurting you yet?"

"You're getting there," he answered, and then he moved his hands back to her waistband, slipped his ringers beneath it, and slowly pulled down her pants. "But you'll do a lot better job of it naked."

Cool air hit the moist heat between her legs and she shivered. "And I suppose now I'm supposed to do the same for you."

"You'd bloody well better," he ground out, this time reaching for the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head and off. "God, Neva. You're so fucking beautiful. I can't decide where I want to start."

Her chest was aching, her voice shaking, her eyes blurring with all that the break in his voice made her feel. "Maybe by getting into bed?"

He shook his head. "I was thinking about getting to my knees."

"Probably not such a good idea in your condition. Especially since the come-along's outside in the truck."

He laughed, but then her hands were at his waist and there was nothing he found funny about that. He sobered, tensed, waiting for her to strip him. She took her time, not so much because she didn't want to hurt him but because she wanted this to last, this anticipation, this moment of decision, this taut sense of change.

She eased the fabric down his buttocks then stretched the waistband to accommodate the bulge of his erection. He wasn't wearing boxers or briefs, and so when released from confinement, his cock thrust upward, seeking her attention and not too proud to beg. He moved his hands to her shoulders; she bent to slide his shorts down his legs to the floor. And while she was down there, she decided to stay.

She used their discarded clothing to pillow her knees and knelt in front of him. He was beautiful, thick and full and turgid, a ripe plum tempting her palate, full to bursting in a deep purple hue. Or so he appeared in the moonlight. She placed her palm beneath his shaft, stroked her thumb over his bulbous glans, loving his texture and heat and all the sounds he made when she adjusted the pressure of her touch.

His thighs tensed, as if those muscles were the only ones keeping him on his feet. The last thing she wanted was for him to fall, and so she scooted back toward the window. This time he was the one who followed her lead, stepping out of his shorts, bracing his hands on the window frame, leaning his weight into his arms and looking down.

She locked her gaze with his, parted her lips, and took him into her mouth. His heat was the first thing she noticed as she cupped the head of his cock with her tongue, licked her way along the sensitive underside. He widened his stance, thrust forward. She took him to the back of her throat, her lips pressed tight to the base of his shaft.

And then she sucked him, pulling away slowly until she held nothing in her mouth but his tight mushroom head. She teased him, the slit in the tip, the ridge where sensation centered, the flat surface of skin stretched taut, the divisions on either side of the rigid seam. Licking away the salty bead of moisture he released, she wrapped the fingers of one hand around his shaft, used the other on his balls.

She held his weight, cupped one side then the other, rolled his testicles with her fingers, sliding one between to separate his sac. Boldly, she explored, finding the hard extension of his erection that ran behind and pressing against it.

Vulgar words spilled from his mouth. Sticky liquid spilled from the slit she toyed with her tongue. He clenched against her probing finger, thrust forward, eased back, setting a slow steady rhythm in and out of her mouth.

It was a rhythm she wanted to feel between her legs, and slid one hand to her sex, pressing a finger to the side of her clit as it throbbed. She wanted to come. She wanted to come now. The wait was testing her patience. But Mick wasn't having any of it. He pulled free of her mouth, hooked his hands beneath her arms, and set her back on her feet.

"My turn," he said, his jaw tight, his voice grating as he turned her and backed her into the bed. She sat, scooted into the center of the mattress. On his hands and knees, he followed her, crawled over her, loomed above. Bracing her upper body on her elbows, she drew her knees close, her heels to her hips, the thrill of the chase burning a trail down her spine.

Mick grinned, his teeth a slash of white in his wickedly gorgeous face, and shook his head. In response, her belly tightened, tightened further when his large hands covered