Jemima Jane Erickson was one drunken pass away from jumping Ethan Weston's bones. He just didn't know it.
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You think I need an orgasm to enjoy sex?_ she demanded. __hat are you, like fifteen?_ She eyed him in disgust. __ can get my own orgasms just fine. Last night was not about me getting off. It was about comfort and solace. About helping you to forget for a while.__than blinked as the full magnitude of her words pelted him like shrapnel. __h my God. It was a pity fuck?
JJ glared at his slumbering frame. Long legs, lethal in denim, his button fly already enticingly popped, abdomen all ridged and naked, begging for a finger or a tongue to discover the hills and valleys, dark shaggy hair spread around his head like a freaking halo on her pillow. Well too damn bad for this broken-down angel. She was the one who__ worked her ass off until two am. Not him. And she wanted her bed back.
All that existed was the blinding imperative to not think, to leave it all behind. To have it all fade to black in the throes of a truly good orgasm. To thrust and rock and pound until he came long and hard. To reach the pinnacle as fast as he could, to leap off the edge and truly leave all his earth-bound worries behind.He was a cave man. He was a Neanderthal. He was fucking Cro-Magnon.