Twister: Party Games, Book 3 (10 page)

And arousing.

Christ, he didn’t just want her, he wanted to surrender to her. To be hers as much as she was his.

His?

Yes, his.

He growled again. She was his. Not just on this field, but after. In his bed. In his kitchen. His car. Her living room. They would spend hours and hours, days and days exploring their pleasure, their need together. And when those hours and days were finished, they’d start time again.

The surety of the notion made his heart thump and his cock spasm. He plunged his tongue deeper into her mouth and captured hers. If he didn’t, he feared he would say something stupid like, “I’m never letting you go.” Or, “I’m yours forever.”

And still their kiss grew hungrier. Cameron thrust her hips upward, her sex pushing closer and closer to his trapped erection. Her hand left his hair, raking over his shoulders to pull him down to her. Her leg wrapped his thigh and finally, his cock pressed to her soft mound.

He couldn’t stop his groan. It ripped from his throat, raw and greedy.

Cameron tore her lips from his. For a still moment, she stared up at him, the pale light of the moon bathing her beautiful face in the softest of silver, illuminating her undeniable pleasure, her unspoken desire.

Lachlan gazed back at her, wanting her to say what her face, what her eyes told him. Wanting her to vocalize how undone she was by this moment. Needing her to say how much she wanted him.

God help him, if she did he’d never be able to control himself.

She didn’t. Not with words. Instead, she hooked her fingers under the shimmery silver of her shirt and pulled it up over her head.

Oh fuck me.

The crass, course thought razed through Lachlan’s head. His stare roamed the perfection of her exposed breasts, the flawless expanse of her flat belly and back to her breasts again. Her nipples were small and dark, their tips puckered and demanding his tongue.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly thick.

All he had to do was lower his head and her breasts were his, to lick and suck and bite. Every fibre in his body was crying out for him to do so. Every muscle coiled tight with the command. So why wasn’t he?

He lifted his gaze to her face, to her eyes.

“Are you sure?”

The question fell from his lips on a hoarse whisper. He’d never asked a lover, or anyone else for that matter, such a question. What did
that
mean?

Cameron’s lips, now swollen and glistening from their kiss, curled into a small smile. A shy smile. Not the smile of the confident supermodel he’d first met under the trees. Not the smile of the sex goddess who’d teased him about a car parking space. Not the smile of the teasing vixen of the Twister mat.

A shy smile that flooded his cock with new desire and hot pleasure.

“I’m sure.” Her answer wasn’t shy. Nor was her voice soft.

And it was all Lachlan needed to hear.

He dropped his head and captured one nipple with his lips, sucking on its puckered form. His hand roamed her bare torso, cupping and kneading the breast on which he feasted, exploring her hitching belly, smoothing the back of her long firm thigh.

Cameron let out a whimpering sigh, the sound a potent caress on his senses. She scraped her fingers over his back, up into his hair. She held his head to her breast, arching beneath him as he suckled harder. Her pussy pressed harder to his dick, her heat burning his flesh even through their clothes.

Christ, he wanted to be inside her.

Dragging his hand lower over her belly, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her skirt. She shifted beneath him, granting his hand easier access to what he sought. Her heat.

“Oh, yes.”

The words left her on a murmur as his fingers found her pussy lips. They were slick with moisture and warm with pleasure. He parted them with one finger, dipping its length into her tightness beyond. She sucked in a swift breath, lifting her hips into the slow penetration.

His head swam. The wet grip on his finger was intoxicating. He delved deeper, a wriggling investigation that made Cameron moan. The licentious sound wasn’t enough. He wanted to hear more from her. His name. Uttered with complete pleasure. He twisted his wrist, enough to allow him to slide another finger into her sex.

“Yes, that’s it. So good…”

Her voice was husky. He lifted his head from her breast, needing to see her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. He scissored his fingers inside her, watching the pleasure he gave her echo in her expression. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, her eyes closing tighter, her cheeks growing flushed.

Raw pleasure. That’s what it was. Nothing contrived. The face of a woman consumed by raw pleasure.

He loved it. Loved that he was the cause of it. Loved that she awoke the same rapture in him. What would it be like when he was surrounded by her?

Heaven. Bliss.

Perfection.

He lowered his head to her other breast, flicking his tongue over her taut nipple as he stroked his fingers inside her feminine sheath.

She whimpered, dragging her nails over his shoulders. “So good…” She shifted beneath him, spreading her thighs wider. Her skirt bunched upward, the action pulling on the back of his hand. His fingers withdrew a little from her pussy and he used it to advantage, rolling her clit—swollen and fat with desire—under his index finger.

“Oh God.” Cameron bucked, her hips jerking upward as she stiffened. “Oh God, yes.”

He teased the tiny nub of sensitive flesh, sucking on her breast in alternating rhythms of pressure. She writhed on the grass, scraping at his shoulder, his back, his shoulders again.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, shoving her sex harder against his hand. “Inside me. Please, be inside me.”

Lachlan’s blood roared in his ears at her plea. His pulse pounded. His erection throbbed. He didn’t know if she meant his fingers again or his cock, but gave her his fingers. He wanted to make her come at least once with his hand before he buried himself in her heat. He wanted to show her the pleasure he could give her. The unequivocal pleasure.

He wanted to hear his name burst from her throat as her cream painted his palm. And then, as her climax claimed her body, he’d fill her with his engorged cock and make her his.

He stroked his fingers in and out of her tight passage, thumbing her clit as he did so. Her nipple pinched tighter against his tongue, the tip of flesh reacting to his touch. He suckled harder, the warmth of her breast on his chin driving his aching need closer to obsession. What was it about Cameron that affected him so?

He didn’t know. And he wanted to.

Pulling his mouth from her breast, he lifted his head and stared down into her face. Her eyes were still closed, the silvery moonlight casting her in an almost ethereal glow.

Christ, she is a goddess.

Lachlan’s cock jerked with hungry lust at the thought. His goddess. He’d never ached for someone with such possessive need, nor wanted to give them such pleasure. He took pleasure from his lovers and gave it, but this…this was…different. This was—

“Oh Lachlan,” she whispered, “I’m going to come. Please, if you don’t stop I’m going to come.”

“Then come. Come for me, babe.”

He drove his fingers deeper into her sex, loving the way she opened her eyes and gazed at him with utter rapture. She fisted her hands in his hair, a shudder rocking through her. Her sex squeezed his fingers, tight pulses that told him her release was taking her.

She sucked in breath after breath, her stare locked on his. As if she couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing the man who’d made her come. He understood. There wasn’t a hope in hell of him tearing his gaze from her face. Not when such open, honest rapture burned within its beauty. Not when the only sound she made as her climax throbbed through her was the softest whimper of his name over and over again.

“Lachlan,” her breath was rapid, shallow, “Lachlan, Lachlan…”

Enrapt, he drank in the sight of her release, his hand cupping her pussy, his fingers stroking more and more pleasure from her. For a giddy moment, he feared he was about to come himself. His balls rose, a searing pressure stabbing into the base of his spine. His climax was close. He wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer. He’d denied himself for too long tonight and the scent of Cameron’s release on the night air, the moans of her pleasure, the sheer need in her eyes…it was a tsunami of sensory torment he could fight no more.

He rose between her thighs, rolling his fingers—slicked with her cream—over her clit as he did so. Readying to unzip his fly and claim her totally. Readying to possess her to the fullest.

The moon slipped behind a cloud, throwing them into darker shadows.

And to their right, a brilliant white flash detonated.

Lachlan reared backward. “What the
fuck
?”

The flash fired again, a second before a male voice muttered “fuck” from the trees near the bleachers.

Cold fury punched into Lachlan. He swung his stare to Cameron’s face. Found confusion etched there. Confusion and fear.

And once again, the flash fired.

Oh God, no.

The dismayed thought had barely finished forming in Cameron’s head when Lachlan leapt to his feet.

He turned and ran for the tree line, fists bunched, body leaning into a sprint. A shadow bolted from behind the closest tree, a shadow the size of a man.

“Finally fucking a model, ‘eh McDermott?” the man-shaped shadow shouted. The flash fired again, farther away this time, but still Cameron flinched. “Just like your old man now, right?”

Cameron’s mouth turned dry. She scrambled to her feet, snatching her top from where it lay in a crumpled mound of silver silk as she did so. The moon picked that moment to escape the blanket of the clouds, bathing Lachlan and the fleeing photographer in pale light.

The paparazzo was stumbling over the grassy area between soccer field and car park, throwing the pursing Lachlan backward glances even as he continued to take photos. The click of the camera’s shutter sounded like a scream in the night, although Cameron doubted any shots the paparazzo fired would garner anything by blurred smudges of movement. But that wasn’t the point.

They’d been photographed. Making love on a public soccer field. Her and Lachlan. The country’s most powerful businessman and the ex-model who’d dropped out of existence.

Her stomach rolled, sick tension knotting inside her. Oh God, the media was going to have a wet dream over this.

Unless the photographer hadn’t captured anything. Was that possible?

“Yeah, right,” she snarled, shucking her shirt over her head and down her torso to cover her breasts, breasts so recently worshipped by Lachlan’s lips and tongue and teeth.

Had the paparazzo captured that? How long had the guy been there before the moon went behind the clouds and his autoflash fired?

Cameron’s stomach rolled again. How could she have been so foolish? She knew Lachlan was a target for the press. She
knew
that.

And still she’d let him make love to her. Almost make love to her. And it wasn’t Lachlan that had stripped her shirt from her body. It had been her. It wasn’t Lachlan that had begged for more. It had been her. Oh God, if the photographer’s flash
hadn’t
fired what else would he have photographed? And worse still, who would he sell the images to first? How long before they found their way onto the net? How much longer after that before they graced the front pages of newspapers around the world?

The crunch of heavy feet on grass made her start. She blinked, hugging herself as Lachlan stormed back toward her. Even in the darkness she could see the rage in his face. The icy contempt and disgusted fury.

“Did you…” She bit back the question before it could finish forming. It was a stupid question. The paparazzi knew how to get away. How to escape a furious target was an inherent talent. It went hand in hand with how to be a low-life scum feeding on another’s right to privacy.

Lachlan’s nostrils flared. He stopped a few feet away from her, jaw bunched. He didn’t look at her. Icy rage radiated from him, a menacing storm that made Cameron’s already knotted stomach twist.

“What the hell was I thinking?” The words fell from his lips in a flat grunt. His hands didn’t so much as drag through his hair, but gouge through it.

Cameron licked her lips. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. “Do you know who it was?”

Unlike her previous question, this one wasn’t stupid. The Sydney paparazzi were a small band of carrion feeders. Those who were exposed to their particular talents grew to recognize them.

“A prick called Holston.”

Cameron bit back a groan. Carl Holston, Sydney’s most notorious paparazzo. The guy had been around even in Kole’s days, climbing trees into people’s backyards, following them into doctors’ surgeries, hanging outside their children’s school all in the hope of catching that one photo he could sell for thousands. There were even rumours he’d attempted to muscle his way into the private funeral of Nick Blackthorne’s parents in the hopes of scoring a shot of the grieving singer.