Then I go back to work, running my lips and tongue over every exposed bit of her. Edging the cup of her bra down, I find her nipple with a biting tease. I flick it with the tip of my tongue, over and over, until she pants and clutches my head. Sliding off the rock, I help her wiggle to the edge, then kneel between her legs and slide my hands up her thighs.

My mouth follows my hands, tasting the smooth bare skin, finding her panties with my thumbs. I dip my head and suck, then open my mouth over her to breathe heat against her mound.

“Brody!”

“You want more?”

“Yes!”

“Lean back. Open your legs.”

I watch her face, registering the flare of her pupils. She likes the command. Noted.

Then she sits straight up, and for a split, wretched second, I think she’s calling it.

But nope. She slides her panties down. She slips them off, folds them, and sets them on the rock next to her.

Those two things—her baring herself to me, and the care she takes with it—make my chest hurt.

Then all the ache shifts to another part of me, because I’m looking at her, and she’s so fucking pretty. A neatly trimmed strip of dark curls, her clit swollen enough to peek out at me, and her lips glistening and eager.

I need to get my mouth on her.

She tastes so good. She’s so soft and so lickable and I want all of her. I need to get my tongue on her clit, need to give it the same pleasure I gave her nipple, nipping and flicking and drawing all those little gasps and pleas from her lips. I have to see how she likes it. Whether she wants the tip or the flat, the flicks or the circles, fast, slow, up and down. Just right here, or the feel of my whole mouth, open and hungry, over all of her.

News flash: She likes it all.

She lifts her hips and jerks against me, grabs my hair and calls my name.

“You need more?”

“Yes, please.”

The please slays me. Jesus, Rachel.

She’s tight. Slick and tight. My cock clenches at the root and there’s a split second when I think I’m going to lose it. Then I get myself under control. I work my finger gently into her, and she squeezes it, thrusting back against my hand. I lick her harder, faster, and she replies, yes, please, this time with the rocking of her hips.

“More?”

“Brody,” she gasps, which I take as a another yes.

I love all her yesses.

I give her a second finger. An open-mouthed kiss and a long, flat lick. And with a cry, she tips over the edge, coming, clenching my fingers, writhing against my tongue, calling my name.