Oh, this will do, I thought, my tongue brushing his, his hand on my neck, thumb tilting my chin, pinning it so he could delve deeper into my mouth. This will do just fine.

My arms circled his neck as I wrapped my legs around his waist, angling my body so he could do what he would with my breast. Fingers hooked my bra and pulled, freeing my breast. God, I wanted his mouth on me, wanted the heat of it, the slick satin of his tongue on my skin. But I settled for the lock of our lips and his hand on my breast. My ribs. My stomach.

His fingers found my button and opened it with a snap. The vibration of my zipper as he lowered it thrummed down the seam of my pants, against the delicate, aching flesh between my thighs.

Fingertips grazed the hem of my panties, the satiny front, cupped my sex. Tested the valley, circled the peak, his hips grinding into the back of his hand, the pressure spurring a grind of my own.

The kiss broke, leaving me stupefied and slack-jawed, my lids too heavy to keep open. His arm, hot and strong, wound around my waist, and he picked me up. The steaming skin of his solid chest against my exposed nipple sent a shock of pleasure down to the place that needed him so. My legs locked tight enough that he let go, slipping his hands into the back of my jeans until his hands were full.

Before I realized what was happening, his hands shifted, working my shorts and panties half off in the same motion as he set me back on the table. A yelp of surprise into his mouth, and my jeans were moving down my thighs. One sneaker in his palm, then on the ground. The other followed. And in little more than a handful of breaths, I was naked but for my bra.

Too stunned to parse, too hot to care. His lips moved down my body, closing over my nipple just like I’d imagined. But imagination was nothing compared to the real thing—the slick heat of his mouth, his fingertip tracing the slick heat of my body.

Though not for long, not nearly long enough before he moved on, leaning me back, lips on the curves of my stomach, the swell of my hip. His hand on my thigh, a stroke, a pull to open it, to hitch it on his shoulder.

I willed my lids opened, the white of my fingers in the black of his hair. The bridge of his nose, the crescents of his lashes. His lips, swollen and dusky. The flash of his tongue, the feel against my thigh. My other thigh slung over his shoulder. The tan of his fingers against the pale of my skin. A tug of my hips, a flick of his eyes to catch mine and hold them. To make sure I was watching when he ran the flat of his tongue up my center and closed his lips over my hood, sucking gently.