Touch Me by Tamara Hogan Read Free Book Online Page A

mouth with no finesse, no attempt at smooth seduction, just a frantic, searing hunger. She felt like she was feeding a starving beast his last meal on Earth. Burying her hands in his hair, she tugged him closer, twined their legs together.
    His mouth was perfect, and he kissed like her darkest dreams: firm, mobile lips, and a slick, clever tongue, tangling with hers in a perfect ratio of pressure to moisture, consuming her, yet not swallowing her whole. She wallowed in textures, in the smooth Egyptian cotton caressing her bare breasts, in the nap of crushed velvet dragging against her shoulder blades as he shifted his weight, in the sandpaper scrape of his chin against her cheek. She dragged her hands over his body, over his wide shoulders, the shifting muscles of his back, skating down past his belt to clutch the ass that made his basic black pants so damned extraordinary.
    Her fingers clenched. Bit in . With a growl, his hips rolled in response, nudging her with that thick ridge of flesh.
    She wanted… so much more.
    She almost whimpered as he lifted his upper body off hers. Definitely whimpered when he lightly—oh so lightly—stroked the lower curve of her breast with his rough, callused fingertips. Delight streaked through her body, every hair standing on end, and her core gave a voracious, greedy clench. She watched his hand as it molded, weighed, learned her shape. She could almost feel his artist’s eye taking in the precise curvature of her flesh, cataloging the gradations of pink in her crinkled areola as he strummed her nipple with his thumb.
    As he slowly lowered his head , took it in his mouth, and suckled.
    She arched off the couch, her nails biting into his scalp. His hips rolled again, and his face tightened with voluptuous pleasure. His nostrils flared—like he should have the slightest doubt about her emotional state. She wanted to see him, learn him. Touch his skin as freely as he touched hers.
    Reaching up, s he unbuttoned his shirt—slowly, like she was unwrapping a Christmas gift—finally pushing the fabric back to reveal his chest. His pecs were lightly dusted with tawny hair, swirling around tight, caramel-colored nipples she couldn’t wait to taste. The hair narrowed to a silky trail as it ran down his abdomen and disappeared behind his waistband.
    He caught his breath as she stroked her hand down the route she’d just mapped with her gaze. Groaned as she laid tiny, biting kisses on his chest, as she lost herself in his dark sandstorm scent. Without quite knowing why, she opened her mouth and bit.
    A groan ripped out of his throat. Suddenly, he sat up, his warm weight gone and cold air filling the void. “Rafe…” The protest died as she watched him wrestle with the buttons at his wristbands. A button popped off, clattering against the coffee table, as he tore the shirt off with rough, careless motions.
    She laid her hands on his thighs, r eveling in the shift and clench of muscles under the ultra-fine fabric, and in the thick thrust of his erection, straining behind his zipper. She bracketed it with her hands.
    His luscious scent deepened, intensified. His wild eyes promised utter sensual mayhem.
    The couch cushions shifted as he stood . Leather creaked, the metal buckle clanked, and teeth quietly gnashed as he unzipped his pants, exposing a tidy nest of tawny pubic hair and an extravagant, rosy erection that danced against his stomach.
    No underwear. The sex demon went commando. Why should she be surprised?
    As he doffed his pants, it was all she could do to keep from drooling. Holy Mother, if his body was beautiful when it was covered by clothes, it was a revelation when he was nude. Lithe and lean, not showy with muscle but unmistakably strong, his build reminded her of a long distance swimmer’s. He looked like he could cut through the water swiftly, smoothly, with minimal effort.
    For hours and hours.
    H e retrieved a slim wallet from the pants pocket, opened it, and removed a condom,