"His appreciation sends a tingle to her bits that is minor compared to the electric shock that follows as his mouth surrounds her nipple. Sweet baby Jesus, the man knows what he's about. Alternating hands, lips, tongue, and teeth, he drives her nearly to the edge before his fingers dip into the waistband of her jeans."
"You can sit, if you like. Want something to drink?" Riley makes her way into the open kitchen, pulling the handle on the fridge. "Looks like we have beer, milk, lemonade, or water."
"Lemonade is good."
Harry really couldn't give two shakes about the lemonade. He just wants an excuse to stay with Riley. Pleading for a tour was a ploy to get in the door. All he's been able to think about since she said "wow" at the restaurant was how badly he wants to get her back into his arms. The fact that she hasn't seen through him is a fucking miracle.
Riley sets their drinks on a small industrial spool that she's painted apple green and serves as an end table.
She is at a loss; her desires are at war with her chronic lack of confidence. What she wants to do is sling one leg over Harry's thick thighs and straddle his lap while she yanks his curls and swaps spit with him. Just thinking about it makes her nipples bead up.
"Sooo, do you want to watch TV or listen to some music?" She takes a drink of her lemonade, wishing it were socially acceptable to add a shot of vodka before noon, then sets it back down too aggressively.
"Not really," Harry replies. "Can you please sit with me?" He motions to the spot next to him, laying his arm over the back of the couch, so that when she drops down, Riley is tucked into him.
"We could play cards," she's really grasping now.
"Riley, I don't want to play cards or watch TV or listen to music. I want to do this..."
Before her hormone-addled brain can track the swiftness of his movements, Harry cups her cheek in his hand and moves his lips over hers. This, she thinks, is something she can work with. Nerves that had been plaguing her explode happily in her tummy and she moans softly, allowing Harry to press her into a horizontal position.
Briefly, Harry considers what his mum would say about boots on the couch but at the moment, he doesn't really give a fuck. Besides, images of any mother would be counterproductive. All he can focus on now is that he is finally in the lip-lock he's been craving, and based on the fact that Riley has both hands fisted in his hair and her legs twined around his, she wants this as much as he does. He kisses up her jaw, tugging her earlobe between his teeth before experimentally searching for the spots on her neck that will make her squirm. When she gasps and involuntarily bucks beneath him, he knows that he has successfully found one just above her collarbone.
Easing off his knees, Harry settles the weight of his hips between her thighs. Riley's hands are restless, moving from his hair to his shoulders, over the definition of his biceps and back to the nape of his neck. He lifts the hem of her T-shirt, tentatively feathering his fingers over her skin and the lacy elastic lying like a line in the sand beneath her breasts.
She responds with tiny hitches in her breathing, grateful that she has done laundry that week and thought to grab a decent pair of undies and a bra that more or less matches.
"Is this OK?" He palms her left breast over the fabric, barely squeezing. "Do you want me to stop?"
"I mean no."
He pulls back, looking into her eyes. They are glassy with want.
"Dammit. Yes, it's OK; no, I don't want you to stop. Please ... god, don't stop."
He smiles with his whole face as his mouth returns to hers with new urgency. Riley's lips part and Harry's tongue mounts a thorough exploration. He loves the way she is clinging onto him. Her body is pressed to his, allowing him to sneak a hand behind her and release the hooks of her bra. Yes! There are many things that doctors study and Harry is always tops when it comes to finger dexterity.
Suddenly, Riley pushes him away with her hands on his shoulders. Son of a duck lover; did he go too far? His question is answered as Riley unceremoniously strips her shirt off and tosses it to the floor with her bra.
"Yours," she points at his chest. "Take it off."
OK. No need to say it twice, Harry grabs his shirt from the back and it joins hers.
Riley pauses long enough to absorb the extent of ink covering his naked torso and arms. Humming in approval, she lies back, breasts on full display. This is not the way it was in the clinic when Harry forced himself to control his very male impulses around her. That day, he saw only one mound of flesh at a time and he was trying not to look more than was required.
Nope. This is a fan-freaking-tastic day! Riley has a prime set of tits and he means that from a completely non-medical perspective.
His appreciation sends a tingle to her bits that is minor compared to the electric shock that follows as his mouth surrounds her nipple. Sweet baby Jesus, the man knows what he's about. Alternating hands, lips, tongue, and teeth, he drives her nearly to the edge before his fingers dip into the waistband of her jeans. When did he work the button and zipper? she fleetingly wonders.
As Harry's fingers skim under her panties, Riley raises her hips, anticipating the relief that his touch will bring.
"You're like silk. Very wet silk."
She pulls his face back to hers, using her tongue to demand more from his fingers.
"I need you to touch me."
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