Tanya Michaels - Good with His Hands

“W-wait.” Clutching his arm for support, she raised a foot and unstrapped first one high-heeled sandal, then the other. Pivoting, she kicked them under the coffee table by the couch so they weren’t lying in the path to the bedroom. This evening was going to end in mind-blowing orgasms, not someone tripping over discarded shoes.

Before she could turn back around to face him, his hands settled on her denim-clad hips. He kissed his way from one shoulder blade to the other. He traced her spine to the top of her skirt, then pointedly tugged the waistband.

She reached for the button above the zipper but paused. “I feel underdressed, comparatively speaking.” Twisting to look back at him, she grinned. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

He whipped off his shirt and balled it up, tossing it in the general vicinity of the coffee table. As he quickly stripped off socks and shoes and fumbled with his belt, she watched over her shoulder. She greedily drank in the sight of his chiseled chest and abs, cursing herself for not turning on more lights. The man was living art. His shoulders were broad and strong, his chest dusted in dark hair that added to his virile air. His torso tapered to an impressively ridged six-pack that she would have assumed was airbrushed if she’d seen it in a photo.

When he stepped out of the jeans, her eyes widened in renewed appreciation at the erection outlined in snug boxer briefs. He was male perfection. And, for tonight, he was hers.

“Your skirt,” he said, his voice thick with expectation.

She gave a quick shimmy, letting the unzipped skirt slide down her legs. He hauled her closer, so that they were pressed together. She swiveled her hips, grinding against him, hearing the way he sucked in his breath, loving that his reaction to her was every bit as strong as hers to him. He reached between them to unhook her bra. Her muscles were so taut with anticipation she struggled to shrug free of the material. He skimmed his fingers over her midriff, upward. But before he reached her breasts, he changed direction. She let him get away with a second teasing pass before grabbing his hands and cupping them over her. His low chuckle, more vibration than sound, rumbled through her.

He plucked at one nipple, making her gasp. “Is that more what you had in mind?” he murmured against her ear.

Yes. She arched into his touch, words escaping her when he repeated the movement, this time tweaking both at once while he kissed her shoulder. She rocked back against him, the movement more instinct than conscious volition. He slid a hand past her hipbone, his fingers curling beneath the thin fabric of her panties to graze her skin.

She was both frantic for him to reach the throbbing juncture between her legs and a touch apprehensive that, once he did, she’d ignite like a roman candle. She had a fanciful image of herself, sated in boneless aftermath, her apartment a smoldering ruin around her. When he began lowering her panties, she had a moment of clarity.

“Condoms,” she blurted. That was nonnegotiable, something they needed to agree on before either of them was fully naked.

“Of course.” His acceptance was immediate, although his voice was gruff. “Jeans pocket. In a minute. First...” His fingers parted the dewy folds at her core, expertly targeting where she was most sensitive. She whimpered, moving against him with primal urgency, reaching out blindly for a way to steady herself.

He steered her toward the couch and splayed his hand on the small of her back, gently urging her forward. She bent over the arm of the sofa, the leather cool against her bare skin. He eased a finger inside her, and she bit her lip.

“Condoms,” she repeated. Now.

“Right.” His voice echoed with the same hunger surging through her.

She heard the rustle of his jeans, the thud of a wallet hitting the floor, the discreet rip of foil. His talented fingers returned, working their magic and heightening the frenzied need inside her until she almost screamed into the sofa cushion. Then he gripped her hips in a hold that bordered on bruising and thrust into her.

He withdrew partially, then pushed back even deeper. It felt so damn good. As their rhythm increased, she raised her hips to meet him, their bodies coming together with enough force to send her up on her toes. Already, a wicked, shimmering pressure was building, spreading through her body as she tightened around him. He reached around her, his fingers stroking just above where they were joined, and she cried out. The pressure broke, exploding in ripples of pleasure that radiated through every cell of her body.

Somewhere in the glittery starburst of bliss, as Gray pistoned his hips again and found his own release, she had a single coherent thought. Pretending that nothing had happened when she saw him again on Monday would be a problem. Having experienced this shattering, all-consuming ecstasy, how would she ever have a simply platonic exchange with him again?

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