Operation G-spot. Jodi Lynn Copeland
their pubic hair. Some of it might be whipped cream, but sure as hell not all. Make that not even close to most of it. No, most of it was the juices gushing from her cunt.
From the sweltering heat stealing over her body to the quaking that started in her toes and ended in her nipples, orgasm was building, ready to erupt, to tear through her limb from limb and have her crying out her rapture.
Only a truly experienced man could accomplish such a seemingly impossible task so quickly. Only a man-whore. Which was what Dusty was. But Liz wasn’t going to think about that. No way. No how. She was going to be one with that stick of Juicy Fruit and stop thinking altogether. Stop focusing. Give herself over to the moment, to her lust, to the rich, musky scent of sex and something else infiltrating her senses.
What else? It didn’t smell good. It smelled, sort of…not good. “Wait.”
The thrust of his hips ceased. He looked up from the vicinity of her breasts to ask incredulously, “Wait?”
She dragged in a long breath. Burning. It smelled like something was burning. Not like the burning lace of her bra, but…Jesus H. Christ! The pie. The pie was burning.
“What am I waiting for?”
She had to block the smell out. The big one was seconds away. The long-awaited O. The climax that would assuage Dusty’s wounded ego and stop him from wanting her ever again. The big dickhead would be all but out of her life. Yes, she wanted that. Wanted orgasm even more.
“Nothing. Keep going.” Tangling her arms around his neck, Liz brought them breasts-to-chest. She buried her tongue in his mouth and pumped her hips.
Cupping her naked ass in his large palms, he gave in to her silent encouragement. He resumed the pace, thrusting into her with long, hard, well-practiced strokes as his warm, silky tongue lapped at hers.
Seconds ago those strokes had had her ready to spiral into the great beyond of Orgasm Land. Those strokes still felt decent, but they weren’t pushing her higher anymore. His kiss was good, but wasn’t evoking the magical warmth and wetness she felt every other time he’d stuck his tongue in her mouth. The wild tattoo of her heart and the hasty speed of her breathing had slowed considerably.
Lust was taking a fast boat to Not-Gonna-Climax Land.
Shit. Shit. And shit.
Her and her goddamned ever-thinking mind. She couldn’t block out the smell. Couldn’t block out the visual of burned pie. Couldn’t stop the thought that she wasn’t her slut of a mother. If she were her mother, or even the sex-crazed version of Liz she’d led most everyone to buy into, she would be coming up a storm and basking in the glow of climax. Instead she was Liz the never-gonna-come farce.
At least that Liz had values. That Liz had a good reason for not being able to dismiss the burning smell. Because unlike her mother, she was incapable of shutting out the things that mattered most. This class mattered more than an orgasm ever could. It was a step on the way to becoming something more than an easily replaceable waitress. Warped as it sounded, given her penchant for destroying nearly every recipe she attempted, she had dreams of owning a pastry shop. And, warped as it sounded, she would make that dream come true, starting with passing this class.
Burnt pie didn’t equate to a passing grade.
She had to make Dusty stop with the damned thrusting and tongue-play already. But she couldn’t just end things the way she had the last two times. She couldn’t because he would keep coming back until he made her climax and his pathetic big-ass ego could be put to rest.
Fake it.
Yes, she could do that. Had done it dozens of times in the past, when she’d either grown tired of the act or she’d been doing a guy she cared about enough to not tarnish his ego over her deficiencies. Those guys had been too caught up in their own orgasm to notice if hers wasn’t exactly bona fide. Dusty might be a man-whore with a reputation of providing more female orgasms than there were women in the state of Georgia, but no way would he catch on.
She had to fake it, for the sake of burned desserts and wannabe pastry chefs, who could barely handle breaking an egg, everywhere.
Forcing her thoughts back into the moment, she grabbed hold of his shoulders and lifted from his mouth. Tossing back her head, she ground her hips against his and rode him hard and fast.
One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand. Three-one-thousand.
The burning smell sneaked up and invaded her thoughts once more. If she allowed any more buildup time, the pie would be toast and not the kind that was edible.
Nipping her short nails into the soft cotton of his T-shirt, Liz sang out, “Ohmigawd!” She snapped her eyes shut and whimpered long and loud. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Right there. Oh yes! I can feel you all the way to my throat. So deep. So good. Oh wow. This is it. This is…I’m com-ing!”
Dusty buried his face in the crook of her neck. His warm, hasty breaths caressed her ear. His grip on her ass strengthened. The push of his dick into her body turned erratic. “Right there with you, babe,” he growled. “Oh fuck, am I ever.”
The last of the words barely left his mouth when she felt the hot push of cum filling up the condom. Thank God, it was finally over.
Tossing in one last pump, grind, and moan for good show, Liz released his shoulders and glanced past him. “What great timing! The pie’s done.”
“The pie’s done?”
His voice was still thick with lust, but he didn’t sound happy. Apparently, he and his enormous ego had been expecting a round of applause.
Looking back at his far-from-elated expression, she smiled. “Sorry. You were awesome. One of the best I’ve ever had.” She forgot about the smile then and swatted his arm. “Now, let me the fuck down. If that pie’s burned, your ass is dead.”
5
She’d faked it. Son of a bitch, she’d faked it.
Dusty pushed through the galley door of the bar’s kitchen. He poured himself a draft from the Budweiser tap and settled onto a stool at the end of the bar. Early afternoon on a Thursday, the place was dead aside from a handful of retired locals and those patrons who worked nights. Damned good thing, too, because the last thing he felt like doing was entertaining customers.
Tossing back a long drink of ale, he replayed the previous night in his head. He hadn’t planned on opening up about his childhood even remotely, but doing so had accomplished the goal he’d set out to attain. The revelation had been enough to get Liz talking to him without malice burning in her eyes. And that had been enough to give him the inside track straight to her panties.
He’d had her good and wet for him, breathing hard and anxious to fuck. Up until the moment the remnants of his own climax washed away, he hadn’t realized anything was off. The moment the blood returned to his brain, he’d known, though. Liz had been neither gasping for breath nor basking in post-climax glow, but speaking as calmly as if he’d just served her up an extra crispy char burger instead of a mind-blowing orgasm.
She’d claimed that she’d been on to his game from the moment he’d arrived at the cooking class. She’d also claimed that he was as lousy a lay as a man could be. He’d told himself she was wrong, a true whack-job to believe such a thing. But what if she wasn’t? What if he was nowhere near the sexual marvel the women in his past had led him to believe? What if Liz really had known his MO last night and had only given in to him in the hopes he would leave her alone from that point onward? She could easily have faked her excited expression and words. That didn’t explain her wetness.
Shit, he shouldn’t care why she’d faked it.
He should do what he’d told himself he would do earlier this week and forget Liz’s accusation by moving on to a woman eager to remind him that his reputation as an expert lover was a tried-and-true fact. He should, but one word refused to stop niggling at him. One word that had haunted him until the day he’d left his hometown behind.