Totally Folked Page 4

  I swallowed reflexively, chasing my breath. He looked so certain, like he was following a script, like he knew exactly what to do. And here I was, just sitting there like a lump, doing absolutely nothing except watching this fantasy come to life.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, his thumb circling me through the lace of my panties, making me shiver and pant.

  “No. No.” I shook my head, my words shaky. “Not at all.”

  His attention shifted to the suit jacket still covering my shoulders. On a wild whim, afraid he’d stop if he thought I was the least bit cold, I pushed off the jacket. And then, because I really didn’t want him to stop, I leaned forward enough to untuck my dress from where I’d been sitting on the hem and whipped the stretchy black fabric over my head.

  His lashes flickered, perhaps having trouble believing his eyes, and a breathy curse slipped past his lips. I’d surprised him, but his thumb never ceased its gentle torment at my center. I widened my legs.

  “Take off your bra,” he said, his words firmer than before, his eyes dropping to my chest. “I’d like to lick you there first.”

  Yes. Please.

  Usually, I waited to release the girls until they could be revealed in a dramatic, high-tension, super-sexy fashion, with just the right lighting. And yes, I called my breasts “the girls” because to me they were amazing, and girls are amazing. I’d always loved my boobs. Maybe it’s weird, but when I got myself off, I liked looking at and touching my boobs. I thought they were so hot. I loved them, and I hoped all women got as much enjoyment out of their girls. Girl power.

  But at present, I didn’t care about a dramatic reveal. With slightly trembling fingers, I unhooked my black lace bra and tossed it away, maybe down the cliff. Then I arched my back, offering myself, not missing the shaking breath he released as his gaze grew greedy, the first tangible signs that I might be affecting him the same way he’d been affecting me all afternoon.

  I reached for him, but he evaded my hands, shaking his head. “Hands behind your back.”

  A new current of something powerfully seductive made my head spin. He sounded so authoritative, like someone who actually had the power to make such a demand. Which I supposed he did. How many times had he said those words as an officer of the law?

  Without thinking, likely because he had me completely enthralled, I said, “Yes, sir,” and obeyed.

  Two lines appeared between his eyebrows, a hint of a frown, and I wondered what was going on in his head. But a second later, his expression eased, and he slid a hand from my thigh to my hip and stomach, around my side to the dip of my waist, his long fingers flexing on my lower back. His hands weren’t shaking or fumbling; they were certain and sure, methodical, careful.

  Meanwhile, I was on fire, restless, feeling needy, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt the moment any part of his bare skin or tongue or lips came in contact with the ache at the center of my body, I was going to come embarrassingly fast.

  I tried to regulate my breathing, but I couldn’t. How his eyes followed the path of his hands on my body, the way he licked his lips—another flick that looked reflexive rather than planned—as he bent his head to my chest, the sight of his mouth closing over my breast . . . it all robbed me of breath.

  And then the hot, swirling, wet slide of his tongue against my nipple made me cry out. I arched my back, closing my eyes, my body trembling and tensing around absolutely nothing. I was in free fall, and I felt so empty. This was insane.

  Fuck. I was going to come. I was going to come, and his touch was still just a light whisper between my legs. I sucked in a breath, working frantically to brace myself, pace myself. But then he withdrew his mouth, giving me just the sight of his tongue tangling with the hard peak of my nipple as his hand slipped unhurriedly into the waistband of my panties with sure, authoritative movements. My breath hitched, and he made this delectable growling sound in the back of his throat, the pad of his middle finger sliding between my folds and circling my clit once.

  Just once.

  Just fucking once!

  And I came. I came, and I heard myself come, and I wanted to cringe at the helpless, high-pitched keening sounds I made, but I couldn’t contemplate anything other than how badly I needed this, needed this pure fantasy of a man, with his certain movements and sexier-than-hell smiles.

  I hadn’t quite finished making a fool of myself, my orgasm not yet spent, when his hands began moving again, hooking into the waist of my underwear to pull them down. They left my body, then his mouth was back on my breast, his kisses hungrier this time, the suction harder. He palmed and massaged my other breast, pinching and twisting and just generally abusing my nipple in the best way possible, another growl escaping him as I gave a throaty cry.

  My arms behind me started to shake, and so he wrapped one of his around my body, supporting me. I felt the muscles beneath his coat and shirt flex, squeezing me tighter. I was cold and hot, goose bumps all over, and my teeth chattered. But I didn’t care because Deputy James was now kissing my stomach, and then lower, and then lowering himself, his tongue swirling and tasting my skin on his way down.

  “Lie back.” His order was gruff, and I was surprised when he followed it with a soft, “Please.”

  The please wasn’t necessary. I was more than happy to do as I was told, but I did lift my head so I could watch him lift my legs and spread me wide and place a biting kiss on the inside of my thigh.

  And then—oh mygod ohmygod ohmygod—he fully extended that glorious mouth muscle of his and he licked me exactly how he had the ice cream. When guys had gone down on me in the past, it had always been a slow, warm build over a long period, with a few misfires and adjustments. But not this time. This time it was all hot electricity and scorching shocks racing from my lower abdomen to my fingertips and toes.

  I made more cringey and helpless high-pitched noises, my fingers grabbing the thick tufts of his golden hair, and he licked and licked and licked, the hairs of his short beard a sharp, stinging contrast to the velvet of his tongue, the sounds he made positively and unapologetically indecent, and so mind-blowingly erotic.

  I didn’t want another orgasm, not yet, but I honestly had no choice. I had no control over the speed and force of my climax, especially not when he slipped long fingers inside me and hooked upwards, instantly finding and massaging my G-spot like someone had given him a damn map.

  Insane. I felt insane. This was insane. He was magical. He was unreal. I cried out, and then my cries became growls and rough curses, my hips pivoting and jerking gracelessly until my entire body locked, every muscle involuntarily flexing as spasms of pure, incandescent pleasure tore me in half from head to toe.

  I’d never locked up during an orgasm before. I’d always been in control of my body and how it reacted to manly ministrations or my army of vibrators. So this—losing control of my limbs and the sounds I made—was a new and bewildering experience for me. It was like . . .

  Well, it was like . . .

  Possession.

  That’s what it was, like being possessed by blinding light and heat and pain and pleasure and feelings too large for my body. I was momentarily overwhelmed, unable to fully engage my mind, even when my muscles and joints finally unlocked and I could move them. I sucked in my first full breath in what felt like hours, and my body melted into a mass of intensely satisfied bonelessness. I then opened my eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d shut them.

  Blinking at the winter sky above me, I listened to my own breaths saw in and out, the rapid drum and thump of my heart. I listened to the sounds of twilight, the wind through the trees, the faint, distant call of a bird. I listened to Deputy James’s slow kisses as he continued to touch me, move his mouth and hands over my body, caressing my hips, sides, arms, stomach, and breasts—like he still wanted to devour me, but slowly. I felt savored.

  Swallowing against some foreign rising tide of emotions I couldn’t name, I lifted my head and looked at the top of his. My fingers were still in his hair,
and he was presently kissing my right breast, spending an inordinate amount of time tasting me there, giving me the sense he couldn’t get enough. His hair was soft and thick, and I resisted the urge to pet it, sliding my hands down to his neck and into the collar of his jacket, but not into his shirt because he still wore his tie. This frustrated me. I wanted to feel his skin.

  Actually, no. I more than wanted to feel his skin. I needed to feel him. I needed to be wrapped up and held tight. This odd urge to be held clogged my throat and made drawing a full breath difficult.

  “Hey,” he said, his lips moving from my clavicle to my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  I shivered, because it was cold and an instinct I didn’t understand—and was frantically working to suppress—continued to demand his weight, his skin, his arms around me. But I wasn’t going to ask.

  “I am much better than okay,” I said, my voice raspy, my throat hurting a little, and I felt compelled to add, “Sorry about . . .”

  He bit the spot where my shoulder met my neck and then lifted his head when I didn’t finish my thought. Dark eyes capturing mine. God, he was handsome. So handsome.

  “What?” he asked, and I tried to ignore the heat of his palm where it rested on my hip.

  “Sorry about being a screamer,” I said, grimacing.

  “I didn’t mind.” He smiled. Not a big one like before. And not that secretive-shy one I enjoyed so much. This one was new, and I didn’t know what it meant because I didn’t really know this guy.

  And for whatever reason, this new smile made me feel shy and uncertain. Me. Raquel Ezra. Hollywood starlet and bombshell who had no problem with full-frontal titty close-ups. My heart beat a strange rhythm, slow and thick, and my neck itched, and my chest felt hot, and . . . am I blushing?

  Oh God.

  I’m blushing.

  What did that mean? Am I embarrassed?

  Yes. That is what is happening. You are embarrassed. Or you’re self-conscious, which is embarrassment’s irritating little brother.

  I—I needed to do something to stop it. DO SOMETHING RAE!

  I’ll . . . Give the man a blow job. Good plan.

  “Hey. Are you okay? You’re shaking.” His smile had waned by slow degrees as he stared down at me, and now his eyes looked soft and concerned.

  Worried that my inner turmoil could be read on my features, I slid a smile in place along with a mask of confidence, and I reached for his belt buckle.

  His eyebrows jumped, and the hand on my hip intercepted my fingers before I could make any real progress. “Hey—hey, wait. Wait a minute.”

  “Wait?” I moved my eyes up and to the right, like I was debating his request.

  He reared back, huffing a laugh and removing himself from the radius of my grasping hands. He also lifted and placed a corner of the fuzzy blanket over my body as he withdrew, covering me.

  “You’ve got to be freezing. It’s getting dark. We should—uh, we should go.” He sounded entirely reasonable and even nodded at his own assertion, sparing me a quick, tight smile. “I don’t want you to catch a cold, and you got that early flight.”

  Before I could react fully to these statements, he placed my dress and underwear on the tailgate next to my hip. “Here. Let me go pack up.” He picked up the ice cream cooler and pushed his way past branches and shrubs for the cab of the truck, leaving me alone, like I might want privacy to dress.

  Staring at my clothes, feeling unsteady and completely confused, I felt and heard the passenger side door open, the rustling of items, and other miscellaneous busy sounds.

  Uh. Okay then. I guess he doesn’t want a blow job.

  What could I do? I put on my clothes, my brain a mess of confusion. What kind of guy doesn’t want a blow job? My whole post-adolescent life, I’d been working under the assumption that it was a truth universally acknowledged. All men like blow jobs.

  Maybe he just doesn’t want a blow job from you. Frowning at the inkling that was quickly becoming a suspicion, I put the black dress on first, then my underwear, then I hunted for my bra, which I now regretted tossing haphazardly in a random direction. But you know what I didn’t regret? That orgasm. Rather, to be more accurate, those orgasms.

  If he didn’t want anything in return, fine. I’d have him drop me off at my hotel and I’d take a hot bath and I’d cherish the memory of this evening for a long time. He didn’t have to worry about me trying to make more out of this than a fun memory. I wasn’t going to make demands or expect him to—

  Ohhhhh! That’s the problem.

  I turned at the sound of him closing a door to the truck and watched him walk along the side, pushing branches out of his way. Waiting until he made it to the tailgate, I stepped forward and said, “You know, tonight, this is totally no strings.”

  He’d been reaching for the fuzzy blanket when I started talking, and his movements paused when I said no strings. Sending me a quick look I couldn’t interpret, he nodded and folded the blanket. “Good to know.”

  “Okay. Good.” I also nodded, strangely not feeling good. I felt compelled to add, “I just want to be clear. I have no expectations of you. None at all. This can just be two people having a fun time. Like—like fishing. This”—I pointed to the truck bed and then to my body—“you can consider what just happened here to be just as meaningful and recreationally enjoyable as fishing.”

  Not looking at me, he finished folding the blanket and hopped up into the bed of the truck. “Gotcha. Message received.”

  “So . . .” I glanced at his shoes and legs, still not feeling any better, and blew out an audible breath. “I can’t find my bra.”

  He smiled, just a small one. “You, uh, threw it off the cliff.”

  “I did?” Setting my hands on my hips, I peered over the edge. “Huh.”

  “Yep. Just sling-shotted it right over.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well.” I was nodding again, working to keep my voice conversational. “Hopefully, whoever finds it can put it to good use. My great grandmother used old lace bras to strain her tea. She’d sew them into little tea bags—you know the ones with the fold-over tops? Where you spoon the tea leaves inside? As the song says, ‘Ain’t no party like my Nana’s tea party.’”

  I guess I’d decided to stop trying to hide my weirdness. The man had just dined on my body like I was caviar and cake and didn’t seem to have any interest in me returning the favor. What was the point of pretending now? Our time together was apparently at an end.

  “That’s pretty clever,” he muttered, stuffing the fuzzy blanket into a bin mounted to the truck bed. The cushy blanket I’d been sitting on during our interlude followed. Actually, I decided I would call it an inter-lewd, which felt a bit more comedic and therefore palatable given the last few minutes.

  Hopping down, he landed on his feet like a cat and swiped something from the bed before shutting the tailgate. He then turned to me, his expression a warm neutral in the waning light, and crossed the short distance that separated us.

  “Here,” he said, settling his suit jacket around my shoulders, his smile soft. “You gotta be cold.”

  I eyed him, instinct wanting me to respond with something sassy like, You want to come back to my hotel room and warm me up? I couldn’t quite form the words. He’d rejected me, right? When I’d reached for his belt and he’d pulled away, that was rejection. If he didn’t want me, that was fine. I was fine. It was fine.

  “I guess I’m a little cold,” I said, just to say something, because he was still standing close. In the next moment, he slid his hands into the jacket, settling them on my hips, gazing down at me with those wonderful eyes.

  Deputy James’s lips parted, and he breathed out. I got the sense he was thinking, considering what to do next. Or maybe he didn’t know what to say. Or maybe he didn’t believe me, that this—tonight—came with no expectations.

  “Listen, I meant what I said. This is one hundred percent no strings. I’m not—I leave tomorrow. And I have a rule about this kind of stuff. Y
ou don’t need to worry about me.”

  “A rule?” He shuffled his feet, moving him closer, his hands inching around to my back. “What kind of rule?”

  “I’m never with the same guy twice. There’s something about the—the elegant tension of one-night stands, you know? Two strangers sharing their bodies but nothing else? If we have sex, you never have to worry about me talking to you after.”

  “You’re talking to me now.”

  “Yes, but we haven’t sealed the deal, have we? Once we have sex, that’s it. You’re dead to me.”

  His eyes narrowed but his lips parted with a half grin. “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I mean. You’re not dead dead to me. Like, if I see you in a Starbucks, I’m not going to think you’re a ghost.”

  He laughed even as he pressed his lips together.

  I plowed ahead, determined to get my point across. “If I see you, I’ll say hi. But my life being what it is right now, my career has to come first. I have the rule—no repeats—and that keeps things tidy for all involved. Plus, it’s fun. And people like to have fun. I like fun.”

  Like before, his grin waned, his gaze turning thoughtful as I spoke, and I could see he was considering me. “What are you doing now?”

  “Right now?” I looked to my left and right.

  “No.” He breathed a light laugh, his fingers flexing on my back. “I meant, what are you doing for the rest of tonight?”

  “I have no plans.”

  A mild frown arrested his features. He stared at me, his gaze intent, but said nothing. I stared at him in return, waiting, because I had no idea what this expression on his face meant. The moment seemed to go on and on, neither of us moving. My heart gave a little tug, a painful and sad spasm at the thought of ending our time together.