“I’ve been hiking since I was a kid,” he says. “Haven’t found a dead body yet.”
My outrage is immediate. “Then you’re clearly due. And clearly out here tempting fate.”
“Claire, you’re the Try It Girl, if only for a few more weeks. Go out with a bang. Get lost in the woods with me.” He leans forward an inch or two, like he’s looking for a kiss to seal the deal.
Before I can give in to the temptation of Pete’s lips, my phone buzzes with a text.
Color Consultants: Hi, Claire! Thanks for uploading your pictures to our portal. We need just one more to complete your application.
“Ugh. I might need your help again,” I say, flipping back through the questions I’ve answered.
“With what? And what’s it worth to you?” he asks, waggling his brows.
“My final Try It column is going to be a color analysis session. Taryn and I will go together to find out what our color seasons are. I don’t know all the lingo just yet, but there are people who swear by the fact that they’re a soft autumn or a cool summer or whatever.”
Pete looks a little lost, so I do my best to explain. “They basically tell you what colors look good on you and whichones to avoid. And a lot of it has to do with whether you are warm and look good in gold tones or you’re cool and look better in silver tones.”
He smiles with understanding. “That’s what the jewelry pics were all about. Okay, what do you need?”
I find the slot for the picture I forgot to upload, and now I understand why. “This one’s a little more work. They want to see me with a natural flush on my cheeks, the kind you get from running or playing sports.”
Pete nods decisively. “I can help with that.”
“Is that because you’re a big strong athlete?” I tease, rubbing my hands along his biceps.
“That might have something to do with it.” He leans in toward me like he’s breathing in my scent. I can feel his heated gaze on me and my legs open impossibly wider. He traces the center seam of my leggings and my body roars to life.
“I want to taste you so bad,” he says, bringing his mouth to my center. I can feel the warmth of his breath through the thin fabric of my leggings. “Sometimes it’s all I can think about,” he tells me, his talented lips less than an inch away from my sex. “The way you feel on my tongue. How fucking wet you get. Those little moans you make.”
His words are causing all the reactions. Without realizing it, I’ve tilted my pelvis up so it’s as close as it can be to his mouth without actually touching it. My panties are wet, and I am almost certain there’s a damp spot on my leggings, too. When I tilt my hips up another degree, his lips brush over my mound and it feels so good, I’m breathless. No man has ever inspired this kind of reaction from me, even during actual sex. Pete hasn’t taken any of my clothes—or his—off yet, and I’m already a whimpering mess.
But he’s taking his good old time. Not that I’mcomplaining. There’s a hot, almost forbidden aspect of keeping our clothes on when we fool around. But I’m ready to get to the fooling around part of the show.
So, to speed things up, I grind myself against his lips and chin. Now he’s the one moaning.
I have pictures to take and articles to work on, but right now, nothing feels as important as letting Pete’s talented mouth and fingers take care of the ache between my legs. I relax back against the couch cushions as he shimmies my leggings and underwear down. The look of absolute awe on his face when he sees my pussy—that he’s already seen dozens of times—is my undoing. I surrender to Pete as he works me over with his lips and tongue.
“So fucking good,” he murmurs, and the vibration of his mouth against the most sensitive part of me takes me even higher. I thread my hands through his hair like I’m holding him in place, but the way he’s devouring me tells me he has no plans to go anywhere any time soon.
Proving he’s a true gentle giant, Pete presses a featherlight kiss to my clit, igniting a spark deep within me that has me pressing my pussy farther into his face. I’m not shy about asking for what I want, and when his hands grip my hips and pull me in even closer, it’s obvious he wants this as much as I do.
He’s driving me wild with slow, languid licks. It’s like he’s got all the time in the world and the only thing he wants to do is eat me for dessert.
I’m not complaining.
In fact, I like it a whole hell of a lot.
If he keeps it up, I’m going to come. It doesn’t happen every time, but I’ve definitely had more orgasms with Pete these past few weeks than the rest of my life combined. He’s so attentive, so attuned, and he doesn’t get all bent out of shape when it doesn’t happen. When the pressure’s off, Ican turn my mind off, too, and just let myself feel good. And sweet hell, does it feel good.
Pete grazes his finger over my swollen clit while his tongue laps at my folds. It’s all so incredible and overwhelming in the very best way.
“Don’t stop,” I tell him, and I swear I can feel him smile against my sex. He’s not relenting until I come, and when my thighs begin to tremble, I know I’m close.
He can feel it, too, and when he wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, I fall apart, my whole body shaking.
We ride out my orgasm together, and when he pulls me into his arms, I go willingly. We fall in a heap on my carpet, but I don’t care. There are far worse places to be than Pete Santos’s embrace.
When our breathing has slowed to a normal pace, he turns to me. “That was fucking incredible. Give me your phone.”
