Part 16 (1/2)

Heat from the fire blasted the soles of Jack's feet, but he didn't care. Now he understood how a person could walk over hot coals. He could do it if he thought about Gen naked. He could do anything if he thought about Gen naked, even put up with a hard-on the size of a battles.h.i.+p while he concentrated on this follow-up business.

Follow-up should be slow and easy. She'd told him that without saying so, by the way she was kissing him, like she was savoring an expensive dessert. So he'd kiss her the same way, and it was working out great, because he could show her without words how lucky he felt to be here. He was most definitely savoring her.

Most of all, he felt incredibly happy to know that s.e.x with Gen, at least so far, was a big deal for him. There wasn't a single so-so thing about it, which meant that he had as much s.e.xual drive as the next guy, and that was a huge relief. He just needed the right motivation, and the right motivation was, at this very moment, sticking her tongue in his mouth.

And lacing her fingers through his. And guiding his hand down until something feathery tickled his knuckles. His heart boomed like cannonfire when he realized what that feathery stuff was.

Her kiss stopped for a millisecond. ”More,” she whispered against his mouth. Then her tongue went to work again.

He could do more. He so could do more. Jack the o.r.g.a.s.m Man, that was him.

She let go of his hand, probably to see if he could manage on his own. He was up to the challenge, but still, the concept of what he was being urged to do blew his circuits. She wanted his fingers in there. He still couldn't believe she was letting him do these things.

Somehow he got past the wonder of it all and s.h.i.+fted a little to the side so he had a better angle. That put his feet closer to the fire, but he didn't care a bit. Any guy whose hand hovered over paradise while his tongue was deep in bliss couldn't let a little thing like hot coals bother him.

He remembered how she'd liked the back-and-forth movement on her breast, so he started by brus.h.i.+ng his hand lightly over her springy curls. She started breathing faster, so he figured he was good to go. Resting the heel of his hand just above the border of those curls, he slid his middle finger slowly down until he reached . . . omiG.o.d. She was juicy, plump, and furnace hot. His p.e.n.i.s ached, his b.a.l.l.s ached.

But she hadn't invited him to play that game yet. She wanted follow-up.

So that's what she'd get. What sweet torture. He added a second finger, and the deeper inside he went, the harder his p.e.n.i.s became. She moaned. He moaned. And then he got to work, deciding that if this was the order of things for her, he'd follow it or die trying.

As it turned out, he didn't have to work very hard. A few strokes and she threw back her head, gasping and crying out as her spasms rippled past his fingers. As she quivered in the aftershock, he supported her with one hand around her shoulders and the other buried in her center of gravity. Maybe she wanted him to stay right there. Maybe she wanted him to do it again. And he would. Whatever she said, he'd do, even if his equipment ended up with permanent creases from being compacted so long.

”Take off. . . your pants,” she said, gulping for air.

Music to his ears. Music to his p.e.n.i.s, too. Slowly he withdrew his fingers.

”Ahhh,” she whispered, sounding regretful as she closed her eyes.

He didn't want her to be regretful. ”I can do that again.”

”I know. Maybe . . . later.” She sank slowly back on her heels and looked at him with glazed eyes. ”I want you to stand up now and take off your pants.”

He wondered if he could stand. He was shaking pretty badly. Somehow he managed it, although the sand bit into the tender soles of his feet. He wondered if they were blistered, but he forgot all about that when she reached for his belt buckle. He wondered if she remembered what she'd said in the plane about b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs. He would never forget it.

She undid the buckle, worked the b.u.t.ton loose, and started unzipping his fly. ”I'll bet you're ready to go off like a bottle rocket,” she said.

He didn't say anything. He was too busy trying not to go off like a bottle rocket.

”Here's my idea.” She shoved down his pants and his p.e.n.i.s cantilevered the soft cotton material of his Jockeys so his underwear resembled the prow of a schooner. She glanced at the display and smiled. ”I need to relieve that pressure before we settle in on that towel, don't you think?”

His response was a very unsophisticated gurgle of excitement.

”I'll take that as a yes. Now step out of your pants.”

He started to follow her instructions and nearly fell on top of her.

She grabbed his hand and placed it on her shoulder just in time to save the day. ”Brace yourself on me. Use two hands.”

Beneath his hands her shoulder bones seemed small and delicate. He hesitated to put any weight on them for fear she'd go down.

”Lean on me,” she said. ”I'm stronger than I look.”

He wanted out of those pants, and his pa.s.sion-clouded brain couldn't think of alternatives, so he used her for support while he extracted his feet from the jeans. She held under his weight.

”Good.” She gazed up at him, looking directly into his eyes. ”You might want to keep hold of me, to steady yourself.” Her cheeks grew pink. ”It could get a mite intense.”

He nodded. Nodding was the best he could do under the current circ.u.mstances. His blood hammered in his ears and he wondered if he might pa.s.s out from excitement. There was only so much a guy could stand. But pa.s.sing out would be such a lame thing to do when he was about to have the most excellent experience of his entire s.e.xual life.

Dropping her attention to those misshapen briefs, she tugged them down in one bold move. ”Bless my ever-loving soul,” she murmured. ”Thumbs don't lie.”

He didn't understand what thumbs had to do with anything, but who cared if she made sense? Who cared if she started speaking in pig Latin? But she didn't speak at all. Instead she wrapped both hands around his p.e.n.i.s. She looked like a rock star holding a mike, ready to belt out that first note.

If she didn't hurry up, it would be a very short song.

When she started playing around with quick swipes of her tongue, he gasped and clutched her shoulders, sure it was all over. But by gritting his. teeth he managed to stave off a climax that might have blinded her. Ah, this was incredible. He had to make it last somehow, so he closed his eyes and started reciting the square root table in his head.

That worked until she slipped her mouth down over the tip. He had only a nanosecond to warn her. ”Gen-”

She tightened her grip on the base of his p.e.n.i.s, which staved off the inevitable a second longer. Slowly she slid her mouth free. ”It's okay,” she whispered, her breath cool on his wet skin. ”Let go. I've got you.” Then she was back, just in time, holding him firmly in one hand, stroking his b.a.l.l.s with her other hand.

He emptied his lungs in a roar as he emptied his come into her mouth. He saw stars, planets, the entire universe. If he hadn't been anch.o.r.ed so firmly to her wonderful mouth, he would have taken flight, rising into the sky like a helium balloon.

Gradually his head stopped buzzing, but his legs were like licorice whips and even her support soon wouldn't be enough to keep him upright. Fortunately she released him about that time, because he needed to get down on his knees before he fell.

Kneeling on the sand, he was still weaving a little as he held on to her shoulders and stared into her beautiful face, the face of a G.o.ddess. ”Th-thankyou.”

She smiled. ”Kisses make a nice thank you, too.”

What a terrific idea. He leaned forward and touched his lips to her mouth, the very mouth that had sent him to Pluto and back. Hot d.a.m.n, she tasted of s.e.x, and what started out as a thank-you kiss turned into a wet, sloppy tongue-fest that soon had him stroking her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her fondling his p.e.n.i.s again.

In no time at all he was recharged and ready to take that South Park beach towel for a magic carpet ride. He'd never rebounded that fast, not even at seventeen. He was a stud. He was a manly man. He was Jack.

He lifted his mouth a millimeter away from hers. ”Ready to unwrap one of those condoms?”

She laughed softly and squeezed his rigid p.e.n.i.s. ”I guess you've been saving up.”

For you, he wanted to say, but thought better of it. ”You bet. Just hoping I'd be stranded on a desert island with a willing woman and a suitcase full of condoms.”

She laughed again. ”Next you'll be telling me Nick did you a favor.”

”He did.” He cupped her breast, memorizing the silken weight of it so he could have memories in his old age. ”But the thing is, he meant to kill me, so I don't think I'll bother to thank him.” There, that was a good comeback, the kind of comeback that a guy by the name of Jack would make. ”And that's as much time as I want to waste talking about Brogan.”

G.o.dd.a.m.n sonofab.i.t.c.hin' rain. Nick Brogan huddled inside a crevice that wasn't nearly adequate to s.h.i.+eld him from the storm. It wasn't bad enough that his pickup men hadn't shown up on schedule, or that he was f.u.c.king starving to death, or that he'd lost his Ziploc bag before he could get the gun inside.

No, he also had to put up with getting rained on. He used to be dying of thirst, too, but now that was solved. He could tilt his head and open his mouth and have all he wanted to drink. Too bad it wasn't raining Scotch.

Quenching his killer thirst was the only good thing about this d.a.m.ned rainstorm that had blown in without warning, totally not part of his brilliant plan. He should be well on his way to sipping Dom Perignon instead of sucking drops of rainwater out of the sky. G.o.d knew where the idiots were who were supposed to show up hours ago.