Her gaze slid down to the thick bulge inside his jeans. It was just as enormous as the rest of him, if the outline that met her gaze was to be believed. And, oh mercy, she was having fun with this. He was like a package that kept on giving. With a little humming noise, Becca reached for his belt and worked it free, then pulled it through the loops and flung it aside. Hank was breathing hard, his hands clenched at the sides of the bed, almost as if he were afraid to touch her.

Like he might want that too much.

Becca took his hand in hers once more and kissed his palm. It was rough and weathered, just like the rest of him, but it was also a turn-on. She knew what those calluses felt like against the insides of her thighs, against the slickness of her folds, and she loved the way they felt. With another quick kiss to his palm, she placed it on her breast and rubbed it against his hand. “Touch me while I touch you.”

He groaned like a man in pain. “Becca, baby . . .”

“I’m not going to stop unless you tell me you absolutely don’t want my mouth on your cock,” she teased him, wriggling as he found her nipple and began to coax it with his fingers. That was all it took for her core to feel hollow and needy and aching once more. “That you don’t want my tongue all over you, tasting you like you tasted me.”

“You know I want that,” he rasped.

“Then touch me and take that pained expression off your face.”

Hank grimaced. “Not pained.” His fingers stroked over her nipple again. “Just . . . concentrating so it doesn’t get too good too fast.”

Ah. Now, that, she understood. “You tell me if I need to ease up, then.” Her hand smoothed down over the bulge of his cock. Oh yeah, that was all him. Good lord, the man was built in every way. They made them big in Alaska, it seemed. “This is . . . impressive.”

“It’s because you’re so small.” His hand slid down her side, then went under her skirt and caressed her bare ass.

He made her sound like she was pocket-size instead of just short. “Not too small to take you in my mouth,” she murmured, and slid his zipper down carefully, just in case he wasn’t wearing underwear.

And . . . he wasn’t. That somehow didn’t surprise Becca. Hank wasn’t the type for fuss. Maybe this monster in his jeans didn’t fit right in the underwear he’d worn in the past. All she knew was that she didn’t care, because it meant one less barrier between them. She eased his pants down his hips slightly, and he lifted his hips to tug them down further to help her along.