gently, all the time keeping up the mouth action.
“Oh, yeah, Jade.” His hips rose, encouraging me but not forcing himself deeper than I could take him. I pumped harder, watching my hand at work. His skin was a couple shades lighter than mine; his thick pubic hair was shiny and black in the sunlight.
The sunshine, the fresh breeze through the open window, the occasional gentle rocking of the boat all intensified the sensuality and immediacy of the experience.
Then Quinn grasped my hips and pulled me down to his face. My sex was soaked with the dew of arousal and he lapped it up, tongue firm against my tender flesh, each stroke building the need that was coiling inside me, so I quivered and pressed myself against him.
He gave me what I craved, sliding a couple of fingers inside me, then a third. It was so sexy, having his cock in my mouth and hands while fingers stroked me deep inside, his tongue teased my swollen flesh, his thumb—oh, God—toyed with my clit. So many blissful sensations, I couldn’t separate them, they mixed together in one giant spiral of arousal, of cresting climax.
As my own excitement built, I pumped him harder, squeezed the head of his cock between my lips, licked up pre-come even as I panted with excitement. The feel and taste of him made something deep inside me clutch with primal recognition.
His cock jerked, his rough finger stroked my G-spot, my body clutched again and then orgasm surged through me, making my whole body shudder and quake.
Quinn let go, too, in spasms of salty come that I swallowed one after the other.
When he was done, when I was done, I eased away from him, body trembling, and collapsed on the bed. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” He pushed himself up the bed to lie beside me. “Christ, that was good.”
Neither of us moved or said another word for a few minutes. Then he shoved pillows behind his back, sat up, and took a long swallow of Coke. “Maybe an afternoon of frustration is worth it, if that’s the payoff.” He held my wineglass out.
I sat up, too, and sipped wine. “Anticipation’s not a bad thing.”
He tucked his arm around my shoulders and I moved into the curve of his body. Sunlight fell across our legs, the soft breeze brought the scent of ocean to mingle with the musk of sex, and I felt sublimely content. We chatted about his gramps, my family, his boat, my job, getting to know each other. Not a single write-off flag arose. As I basked in the glow of great sex and easy conversation, I felt an affection and intimacy that were new to me.
The sun slipped away and Quinn glanced at his alarm clock. “Damn, it’s later than I thought. I have to get ready for work.” He dropped a kiss on my lips, then slid out of bed.
Reality rushed back and I jerked upright. What had I been thinking? There was one very good reason Quinn was a write-off: he was a firefighter, an adrenaline junkie. I couldn’t get dreamy about a man who put his life at risk, who could cause me the kind of heartache I’d suffered when Papa almost died.
Back to my priorities, and our business. He’d left the cabin, giving me a brief but tantalizing rear view, and water ran in the little bathroom. “We should talk about which Triple-F event you can attend next,” I called out.
His head popped round the door. “Come sailing with me.”
“Sailing? What does that have to do with Triple-F?” I climbed out of bed and sorted out the tangle of discarded clothing.
He returned and opened a cupboard. “We can talk about the event when we’re sailing.” Underwear, jeans, and a gray T-shirt landed on the bed.
“I’ve never sailed. It’s dangerous.”
“Driving a car is dangerous. Unless you know what you’re doing.”
“Everyone drives. Not everyone sails. Look, I’m not into doing risky things.”
“Huh?” He paused in the act of pulling on jeans.
“You and I are different.” I pulled my shirt over my head and crossed my arms. “I’m cautious, and you’re an adrenaline junkie who like things like sailing and windsurfing, and you’re a firefighter.”
“You’re dumping on my hobbies and my job?”
“I’m not dumping. Just saying—”
“What?”
I bit my lip. “It was silly. I was going to say, I’d never get involved with a guy who did dangerous things. But of course we’re not involved, it’s just the Triple-F thing and the, uh, sex.” And despite my postsex daydreaming, that’s all I’d ever let it be.
He was pulling on his T-shirt. When his head emerged, he said, “We’re doing your work thing and we’re having sex, but we’re not involved? Look, like I said before, I’m not going down on one knee and proposing, but d’you have to categorize things so strictly? Can’t we just hang out, date, see where things go?”
“No.” I ran my hands through my mass of unruly hair and wondered where he’d tossed the pins he’d removed. “That’s what I was doing before, with guys. Now I want to get married. I need to focus and not waste time.”
“Oh, yeah. That serial first date thing.” He shook his head. “Which I totally don’t get.”
“Because you’re impulsive and you, uh, go with the flow. I don’t.”
He gave a wicked grin. “Seems to me you do in bed.”
“I, uh…”
“Do you have a serial date every day?”
“No, and I only meet them for coffee or lunch. If we had dinner, someone might see and think I was cheating on my fiancé. Coffee and lunch are more casual.”
He gave a snort of laughter. “Christ, woman, you lead a complicated life. Okay, here’s the deal. The next afternoon we both have free, you’re coming sailing with me and you can brief me about the next Triple-F function.”
“I already said, sailing’s too dangerous.”
“Life vest. Calm water.” His eyes glinted with humor and his dimple flashed. “Haven’t you heard of compromise?”
He had a point. Sometimes I got so hung up on planning, I could be inflexible. “I’ll visit you on the boat again, and we’ll discuss compromise then.”
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