Jill Sorenson - Crash Into Me

She clutched her hands at his shoulders. “James, stop,” she sobbed, hitting him with her fists. “It hurts. Take it out.”

He pulled away from her and rolled onto his back, chest heaving. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, cursing himself for being so clumsy. “I’m going to die now,” he added, wallowing in the agony of sexual frustration.

Carly smiled. “Maybe we should try again.”

“I can’t.”

“You look like you can.”

“I mean I can’t stop again. So we better not.”

She pouted gorgeously, because that’s what she did when things weren’t going her way. “But, James, I’m all…”

“What?”

“Itchy and aching.”

He opened his eyes, let them slide over her lithe body. “I can probably help you out with that.”

She gave his penis a questionable look, and he laughed. It hurt to laugh, so he stopped. “With my mouth,” he clarified.

“Oh,” she said, a soft blush of color on her cheeks. “No,” she decided, biting down on her lower lip.

“Why not?” He stared at the apex of her thighs eagerly.

Suddenly shy, she covered herself with her hand. “Because.”

He was beguiled by her modesty. “Why?”

“I think I bled a little bit.”

He sat up and took her hand away. “Let me see.” He stroked her with the tips of his fingers, barely touching her, then pulled his hand back to look at it. Her moisture was there, and a tinge of pink. “Yeah,” he said in wonder, smiling slightly. “You did.” Without thinking, he licked the tips of his fingers, and heard her sharp intake of breath.

Puzzled, he drew his eyes up to her face. She was flushed and lushly dark-eyed, her dusky nipples jutting forth, her respiration coming in short, soft pants. Not sure what had caused her reaction, he touched his slick fingers to her and brought them up to his mouth again.

“Why are you doing that?” she asked, spreading her legs a little more.

“I want to taste you.”

She moaned, throwing her head back and resting her hands behind her, palms facedown on the deck. He skimmed his fingertips over her, very lightly, and she moved her hips against his hand, yearning. At the same time, he bent his head to her and wet her nipple with his tongue. She whimpered, so he did the same with the other nipple, watching the sun and breeze dry them, then doing it all over again.

When he thought she was almost to the point of climax, judging by the breathy sounds she was making, he moved his mouth down her body. He quickly discovered it wasn’t as difficult to please her as he’d imagined. He just put his tongue where he thought he should and laved that spot, like he’d done with her nipple.

She clutched at his hair, holding him there, so it must have been the right place, and then he was sure, because she stiffened and shook and screamed his name.

After she was finished, she lay back on the blanket, eyes closed, murmuring something unintelligible. She was dewy with perspiration, languid with release, holding a hand over her quivering belly.

James lifted his head, very proud of himself.

“Do it again,” she said, raising herself up on her elbows.

“Again? I don’t think you can. Give yourself a chance to rest.”

She laughed. “No, I mean, come inside me again. For you.”

He was still aching with need, but he felt strangely satisfied, to have fulfilled her so thoroughly. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” She pulled him back on top of her. “Tell me what to do.”

He was reluctant to hurt her again, to ruin everything pleasurable she’d just experienced, but he couldn’t make himself say no. “Put your knees up.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah. Oh, God, yeah. Tell me if it hurts,” he grated, going slower this time, sliding in inch by inch.

“Ooh,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as before.”

He made himself say it. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she said, taking a calming breath. “Keep going.”

He held himself very still. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, smiling hesitantly. Placing a soft kiss on his lips, she tilted her hips up, encouraging him.

He groaned, surging forward, trying not to go too fast or too hard or too deep. Despite his preoccupation, it took only a few shallow strokes before he was gasping, shuddering, collapsing, and burying his head in the wild tangle of black hair at the curve of her neck.

After it was over, he lay sprawled on top of her, sweating like crazy and panting like a dog, too wrecked to move.

“If I’d known it was going to be over that fast I might have let you finish the first time,” she teased, running her fingers through his damp hair.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling back at her shyly.

“Don’t be,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Tears came to his eyes, so he buried his face in her hair again. “I love you, too, Carly,” he replied, shifting his weight to one side and wrapping his arms around her, never wanting to let her go. “God, I love you, too.”

Sonny should have asked one of DeGrassi’s staff members, or even Special Agent Mitchell, to accompany her on the return trip to the Bruebaker residence.

Instead, she went alone. She’d always preferred flying solo. She was good at watching her own back, being responsible for only herself, and taking calculated risks without having to worry about endangering someone else.

She didn’t need any more liabilities.

A uniformed servant led the way to Tom Bruebaker’s home office. He did a double-take when he saw her standing in the doorway.

The maid frowned. “Is everything all right, señor?”

“Of course,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

After offering them both coffee, and showing Sonny to her seat, the maid quietly departed.

Tom Bruebaker wasn’t a fool. He set aside his discomfort at having an undercover agent posing as a guest at his daughter’s funeral and processed the ramifications of her presence. “Does Ben know who you are?” he asked, reading her card.

She gave him a tight smile. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case.”

“What’s to stop me from picking up the phone and calling him?”

“Nothing.” She folded her hands across her lap, confident he wouldn’t.

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“I want to know about your relationship with Olivia Fortune.”

He looked away, stalling for time, his fingertips drumming a nervous rhythm across the surface of his desk.

“Did you sleep with her?” she persisted.

He met her gaze. “No.”

Sonny arched a brow. He appeared to be telling the truth. “Why does Ben think you did?”

“I have no idea,” he replied flatly. An obvious lie.

“Mr. Bruebaker,” she chided, “I’m investigating the death of your daughter-”

“Really? It looked to me like you were investigating Ben Fortune’s tonsils.”

“Tell me what you know about his wife,” she offered, ignoring the insolence, “and I’ll tell you what I know about yours.”

It was a good bluff, and he bought it. She’d known he would be weak where Sheila was concerned, and felt a twinge of shame, to have obtained that information so amorally. “Olivia and I were friends,” he began. “Nothing more. She visited me one morning while Ben was out of town. In tears. Inconsolable.” He paused for a moment, as if disturbed by the memory of her distress. “She’d been angry with him, and gone with another man to get even. She regretted acting so impetuously, and wanted my advice.”

“Why yours?”

His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Sheila has…betrayed me a number of times, and I’ve always taken her back. Olivia wanted to know how to make it right. What to tell him.”