McFarlane's Perfect Bride / Taming the Montana Millionaire: McFarlane's Perfect Bride

“Just okay?” she teased him.

He chuckled. “Better than okay. Way, way better.”

“Then kiss me, Connor.” Her eyes were mossy green at that moment, and shining so bright. “Kiss me again …”

He didn’t have to be told a third time. He caught her sweet lips and she opened for him, letting his tongue in to play with hers. And as he kissed her, she turned slightly, moving them both around, until the backs of his legs touched the side of the bed.

She guided him, gently pushing him back, until he lay across the tangled white sheets. And she came down with him, soft and sighing, her mouth so wet and sweet. He couldn’t get enough of her kisses, couldn’t get enough of her.

But then she pulled away and rose up on an elbow. She gazed down at him, her lips soft and swollen, her eyes making tempting erotic promises as she tugged on his shirttail, sliding her fingers beneath the knit fabric to caress him.

He groaned at her touch, at the way her soft fingers glided over his flesh, tenderly, teasingly. And he wanted to feel her, all of her, skin to skin. So he sat up, kissed her once, hard and fast, and ripped his shirt up and over his head. Swiftly, he yanked off his boots and got rid of his socks. He undid the button at the top of his fly, and tugged the zipper down. Lifting his hips, he shoved the jeans and his boxer briefs halfway down his thighs.

She helped him, getting hold of the jeans and the briefs, sliding them off the rest of the way, tossing them over the edge of the bed.

At last, he was naked. He felt her gaze on him, sweeping upward over his body to meet his waiting eyes.

She breathed his name on a long sigh. “Connor.” And she swayed against him.

Magic, the feel of her smooth skin pressed to his. He caught her, pulling her close, tucking her tightly to his bare chest, reveling in the silky feel of her hair against his flesh, in the delicacy of her body, the way it curved into his, in the scent of her, so fresh and clean and sweet.

“Tori.” Her name sounded so good on his tongue.

She tipped her head back to him with a questioning sound.

“Tori …” He kissed her. And that time, while he kissed her, he touched her, clasping her slim upper arm, palming the firm curve of her shoulder.

Such soft, tempting skin, and all of it his to caress. He traced a finger inward, skimming the bows that held her nightgown in place. And then up, along the velvety skin of her neck, until he reached the heated flutter of her pulse, waiting there for him, in the vulnerable cove at the side of her throat.

He laid his whole hand, flat, against the satiny warmth of her upper chest. Lower still, he curved his fingers around a high, firm breast. She moaned when he did that, and moaned again as he found her nipple through the thin cloth of her nightgown and teased it, rolling it tenderly between his thumb and forefinger.

Those sweet little bows at her shoulders? By then he couldn’t resist them. He made short work of them, pulling the end of one and then the other. They fell apart, taking the top of her flimsy little gown down with them.

Her breasts were revealed to him, round and firm, compact, the skin so fine, the delicate blue veins showing faintly beneath. He eased her to her back, bent his head and took her pretty pink nipple into his mouth. She groaned deep in her chest when he did that, and pulled him close to her. He drew on her breast, strongly, and she bowed her slim torso toward him, lifting her breasts, offering him more of her.

The hem of her short gown rode high on her smooth thighs. He reached down, guided it higher.

She wore nothing beneath. He touched her belly, stroking, loving the feel of her, enjoying the eager way she gave herself, so openly, without holding anything of herself away from him. She groaned and clutched his head even tighter to her breast.

And he let his hand wander lower, over the warm silk of her lower belly, to the place where the soft curls were waiting. She lifted toward him, urging him on.

He touched her, dipping a finger into the feminine heart of her. She was wet. Hot. He explored the silky folds and she encouraged him with tender little moans and sighs, as she lifted her hips, opening her thighs to him, so eager. Hungry for more.

So he gave her more. He kissed his way down her body, sliding her gown even higher, until it was no more than a tangled, satin band around her waist. He kissed her belly, dipped his tongue into her navel, and breathed in the musky, sweet scent of her excitement.

He had to taste her. Now. Immediately. He kissed the silky red-gold curls and lower, putting his mouth where his wet fingers had been.

She was writhing by then, her hands clutching his head, fingers speared in his hair, urging him onward. He ran his tongue along the slick wetness, drinking in the taste of her, driving her higher, finding that it aroused him beyond all reason to be giving her pleasure, to know that she liked it, that she wanted him to kiss her in this most intimate way.

And then, all at once, she was crying out his name. She broke, shuddering. He tasted her completion, felt it pulse against his tongue.

Her satisfaction drove him higher, gave him something so good, so right. Something he had never known he craved, something hot and bright and beautiful. Something good and true.

Who knew it could be like this?

Not Connor.

He had never been what anyone would call an attentive lover. With his wife, the sex didn’t matter anyway, except for the necessity of producing his son. And with the women he’d dated in the past year, he’d been utterly selfish. He saw that now. They gave him pleasure in the form of sexual release. And he took them out to the best restaurants, showered then with pricey gifts.

But with Tori …

Everything was different.

He got pleasure from her pleasure, took satisfaction from knowing she was satisfied.

She sighed, and a little laugh escaped her. “Oh, Connor.” Her fingers, now, were gentle in his hair. “Who knew?” Good question. He certainly hadn’t. She whispered, “Come up here, up here to me …”

One last press of his lips against those wet red-gold curls and he obeyed her, kissing his way up the middle of her body, over her soft, tempting belly, between her small, perfect breasts. He paused to dip his tongue into the groove at the base of her throat. Never would he get enough of the taste of her, sweet and slightly salty now, with the sweat of their lovemaking.

He kissed her throat, her chin, and finally, with a sigh, he settled his mouth over hers and tasted her more deeply. He was aching, aching in a good way, hard and ready, needing her so bad.

She caught his face in her two soft hands. “The drawer, in the nightstand …”

He reached for it, his mouth still locked with hers. Finding the knob, he pulled it open, felt around inside, his fingers closing over a pen, a notepad, a small flashlight. But nothing that felt like the condom he was groping for.

She pushed gently at his shoulders. “Let me,” she suggested.

Reluctantly, he let her up, and sank back against the pillows. He admired the gorgeous curve of her slim back as she got up on her folded knees and slid the drawer all the way open.

“Got it.” She pulled out a box from way in back and swiftly peeled the lid wide, taking out a single sealed pouch. She held it up.

He reached for it.

But she only laughed and snatched it away and looked at him from under her thick lashes. “Let me. Please.”

He settled back against the pillow again and folded his hands behind his head. “Absolutely. Be my guest.” He spoke teasingly, though he wanted only to grab her, roll her under him and bury himself deep in her waiting softness.

She was kind. She didn’t fool around. She had the pouch open and the condom sliding down over him within seconds. The touch of her hand as she guided it into place, snugging it neatly, evenly, at the base, almost undid him.

But not quite. She bent over him, so her lips were no more than a breath away from his. “Good?”

He refused to move. If she wanted to take control, so be it. “Excellent.”

She slid a leg over him and went up on her knees astride him, but away from him. Her eyes weren’t so teasing anymore. They were hungry. Ready.

He resisted the powerful urge to grab her hips and surge up into her.

She bent close, though she didn’t lower herself down onto his waiting hardness. She whispered, “You’re gritting your teeth.”