This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(89)

“Good,” he breathes, not relenting.

I whimper and moan and pant while he keeps at it, confining his focus to my breasts. My hips twist and I writhe, but he doesn’t let me get away. Finally I can’t take it anymore and I explode in a clap of thunder. With a crash of lightning behind my eyes, I unravel like a loose thread that he keeps tugging and tugging until it dangles. I dangle over an open canyon, waiting to be dropped, but he never does. He holds me through the trembling shock of a pleasure so intense it feels like a discovery. I hide my face in the warm skin of his throat, my sweater accordioned between us, bra open, breasts bare and heaving into his chest.

“I’ve never…” I draw in a ragged breath, helplessly trying to calm my racing heart.

“Never what?” He strokes my hair away from my face and dusts soft kisses across my hot cheeks.

“Never come from just that,” I confess in a mortified rush.

“Really?” His eyes are riveted on my face. “Can I… never mind.”

He moves to sit up, but I grab his arm to keep him close.

“What is it?” I whisper. “What do you want?”

He hesitates for a moment before meeting my eyes directly. “Can I feel?”

“Feel?” My mind is scrambled, an orgasm omelet, with all my thoughts whisked and tossed. “Oh, you mean feel.”

He offers a terse nod, lips and jaw tight, but he doesn’t withdraw his request. In answer, not breaking our stare, I unzip my jeans, wriggling to loosen them around my hips. I take his hand and guide it into my panties. Both of us are breathing harshly by the time his warm, blunt fingertips reach me, explore the wetness flooding my underwear. I clench my eyes shut. He said he just wanted to feel, but I drop my legs open in case he wants more because I do.

Unhesitating, he grazes my clit with his thumb and I arch, staring up at the light on the ceiling as if that one point of brightness anchors me to the world, to my body.

“Sol,” he breathes, lowering his head to my neck and kissing the dips and hollows of my collarbones. “You’re so wet.”

“I know,” I pant, involuntarily rolling my hips into his touch, into the probe of his fingers parting me. “Please do it.”

“Do what, sweetheart?” he asks, his fingers going still, poised at the entrance to my body. “What do you want?”

“You know, Judah.” A sob catches in my throat. “You know what I want.”

He brushes my clit again, sending a jolt through my legs and curling my toes in my boots.

“You know I want you inside,” I choke out.

Two big fingers plunge into me, and we gasp together when he breaches that most intimate place for the first time. He begins slow and steady, then becomes urgent and ruthless. He wrenches a second orgasm from me, this one accompanied by a scream that flees my body and climbs the walls of the shed. I almost clench my legs together to keep him when he withdraws from me. I search for the embarrassment, for the shame of coming all over his hand. Of screaming his name in the back of his 1964 vintage pickup truck. Of taking pleasure in the sweet, soft, rough, right places I find it.

But there’s no shame. No embarrassment when he looks at me and smiles, eyes searching my face.

“That was…” I sigh and rest my hand on his chest. “If I smoked, I’d have a cigarette.”

His rich, throaty laughter coaxes a chuckle from me too.

“You didn’t…” I falter, my amusement withering when I notice his erection. “We can—”

“Not necessary,” he assures me, his deep voice rumbling under my palm. “I’ll be fine.”

“But you—”

“We said ten minutes and it’s been thirty.” He drops a kiss to my forehead. “You need to get back to your girls and your sister.”

“Shit.” I cannon up and scramble off the truck bed. “How could I forget…”

His usual impassive expression doesn’t hide the smug satisfaction lurking beneath the strong planes of his face.

“Oh, God.” I laugh and point at him. “You’re so happy you made me forget.”

“Not happy, no.” He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “But I don’t regret that. I don’t want you to feel guilty being here with me too long on Christmas Eve with your family waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” I step close, tip up on my toes, and kiss his cheek. At the last minute he turns to capture my lips with his, groaning when our tongues tangle. His hands slide down my back to cup my ass, lifting me closer. When I’m drowning in sensation and oblivious to time, rolling my hips into his hardness, he’s the one to pull away.

“You should go,” he says, strain laced in the words and on his face.

His hand rests possessively at my hip, and he slaps my ass lightly. It seems like such an un-Judah thing to do, it makes me laugh. It’s a happy, unfettered sound that floats around us in the cool night air. He takes my hand and walks me into the kitchen to grab my purse and then on to my car.

Has it only been a year that I’ve known him? It feels like our times together have been concentrated—so much has been poured into every interaction. We’ve learned and revealed so many things about each other. He’s a friend who, as much as I resist it, becomes more every day.