Operation G-spot. Jodi Lynn Copeland
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fondling…
Her panties grew moist with the memory of his rough voice so near to her ear. Her nipples leapt to attention at the thought of the cool cream sliding over them, followed by his hot mouth and that wonderfully coarse goatee. She held little doubt that if she hadn’t ordered him to stop the nipple-play and get to the main event, he would have been able to turn her into one of those women who came from nipple stimulation alone. No doubt at all he could have popped her orgasm cherry.
“Something wrong?” Diane’s soft voice piped in from behind her.
Yes. She was turning into a bigger head case than ever if she honestly found a sundae sexual.
Liz broke from her ogling to look at the late-forties, graying brunette dressed in the same tuxedo-style uniform she wore. The difference was her friend’s ample chest combated the manliness of the outfit. “No. I was just thinking.”
Diane’s lips crooked in a knowing smile that brought small laugh lines to the corners of her mouth. “He musta been something.”
“Who?”
“Whoever it was that left you with thoughts hot enough to melt ice cream.” Amusement lighting her gray eyes, she nodded at the sundae in Liz’s hand.
Liz groaned at the soppy state of the dish. With all that melted ice cream and whipped cream, it looked like the banana had just gotten off in a major way. How pathetic was that? Even fruit was more capable of getting off than her.
Yep. Definitely a head case, to be envious of the orgasm of an inanimate object.
“He was no one. No one important, that is,” Liz corrected, remembering this was Diane, the woman who expected her to tell at least three wild sex tales a week, all of which ended with her coming so hard the force of climax left her temporarily blind. She forced a wicked smile. “But then, they never are.”
And they weren’t. No man was important enough to burn her pie over. Not even one who could conquer her jealousy over climaxing fruit. Not even one who, ever since he’d brought up his far-from-ideal youth, had left questions spinning in her mind. She wasn’t asking those questions, and she sure as shit wasn’t giving in to her jealousy by granting Dusty yet another try at providing her with a real orgasm.
So what if she never had her orgasm cherry popped? She would rather be an orgasm virgin who knew how to focus on those things that mattered than a hormone-driven slut any day.
”What are you doing here?”
Dusty bit back his laughter over Liz’s murderous expression. He glanced around the community center classroom and then back at her, feigning confusion. “It’s Wednesday night, right? The cooking class?”
She gritted her teeth, as if keeping her voice on a relatively calm level cost her dearly. “Yes, it’s Wednesday night and the cooking class, but that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here? You got what you wanted.”
Not even close. He wanted her quaking in his hands, too caught up in the throes of climax to consider faking it.
The last week had proven that Colin was partly accurate with his commitment assessment. Dusty was committed to Liz. Committed to giving her an orgasm that would remove any doubt of his pleasuring abilities. If that took a little time and patience, then he was in for the long haul.
He smirked. “Nice to see your ego’s still healthy as ever, babe. But like I told ya last week, I’m taking this class to learn to be a better cook. Anything I got after class was a side benefit.”
Liz studied him a few seconds, gaze narrowed, then said quietly, “I hope you enjoyed it, because that side benefit won’t be happening again.” She turned to the refrigerator to get out the ingredients for tonight’s class, but then quickly turned back. A naughty smile curved her lips, plumping them enticingly.
Dusty’s thoughts voyaged to the previous week and the feel of those satiny lips once again wrapped around his dick. His cock stirred to life, snugging his jeans tight in the front. He’d been an ass to speak words he knew would make her stop sucking him. From her hums of satisfaction, she’d enjoyed it a great deal. God knew he’d been ready to explode.
Liz retreated from the refrigerator to the counter he reclined against. Her hand settled on his forearm, stroking leisurely, while the muscles beneath her palm corded. Hundreds of women had touched him this way; never before had it made his pulse hammer. That hammering only intensified as she brought her lips to his ear and whispered, “I won’t lie, Marr, you were good, but then so were the rest of the guys I screwed last week. There are way too many men out there to waste my time on one who can only finish the job a third of the time.”
The feel of her warm breath warred with the cool accusation in her words. She was trying to piss him off. She was doing a damned good job.
As much as he would like to dismiss it, the roiling in his gut had nothing to do with the fact that she had yet to climax for him and everything to do with the mention of screwing other guys. It was because she was his friend’s sister, he reminded himself. A woman he’d known, at least marginally, for years. It only made sense he would feel a certain amount of protection toward her. Why that protection level had risen in the last couple of months wasn’t something Dusty cared to question.
“Right,” he said nonchalantly. “You don’t do relationships.”
She reared back as if he’d slapped her. “You know damned well I don’t,” she said loudly. Clearly too loudly, as she grimaced and sent a nervous look around the room. She shifted from foot to foot a few seconds and then returned to the refrigerator.
The hasty retort and her reaction further agitated his gut. Something told Dusty to change the topic. For the sake of figuring out what made her tick, he forged on. “Refresh my memory. Why is that?”
“That is none of your business.”
“I can ask Colin.”
Yanking the refrigerator door open, Liz shot him a glare. “Do I look like an idiot? No way would you bring my name and the word relationship up around him.”
No way in hell, and that just meant he needed to probe her for an answer all the more. She squatted and pulled open the crisper drawer. He pushed off the counter and came up behind her. “So, what’s on the menu tonight?”
Without looking at him, she handed out two cloves of garlic. “Shrimp scampi, and pull-eaze don’t expect me to believe you’re going to let that question drop. You’re going to try to pull the same kind of crap you did last week. Forget it. I’m not interested.”
He set the garlic on the counter. Still not looking at him, she stood, grabbed a stick of butter from the side bin, and held it out. Sliding his fingers up the stick, Dusty settled them over hers. He leaned inward, until he could feel the heat emanating off her body, smell her scent on the air, Ivory soap undercoated with a feminine musk that gave her away.
Not only was she interested in a repeat of last Wednesday night, she was wet for him even now.
Though he’d vowed to be patient, he couldn’t resist rubbing his fingers over the smooth backs of hers. “Warm butter on hot skin isn’t your thing, eh?”
Liz tensed. “I like it fine, with the right guy. You aren’t him.”
No? Then how could his touch get to her so completely?
That she was suggesting there was one right guy caught up with Dusty then. Releasing her fingers, he stepped back and set the butter on the counter, slowly digesting the idea that Colin’s commitment theory could be dead on.
Was it possible that Liz could only climax when emotions were involved?
She had the reputation of a woman who loved sex and regularly partook of it with strangers and friends alike. What if that reputation was a sham? Colin complained about Liz sharing the details of her many sexual exploits with him, but had her brother ever seen her come home with anyone outside of Dusty, or were the men she spoke