Bad Boys Southern Style. JoAnn Ross

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      He rubbed his jaw. “Now see, it’s the accent that throws people off. Some people hear my Georgia drawl and mistakenly believe I’m a pushover.

      “If you’re looking to hook up with some mealymouthed, sweet-talkin’, roll over and pee on himself Ashley Wilkes type, you’ve got the wrong fucking man.”

      The drawl hardened, like steel wrapped in black velvet. “But if you’re lookin’ to explore the dark side of your dreams, well, I’m your man.”

      Her body responded to that suggestion, becoming more aroused, even as she struggled to maintain some vestige of control.

      “What makes you think I’ve been even having that sort of dream?”

      “Of course you have,” he said with an arrogance that would have annoyed her had it been any other man. “Same as I have.”

      “Emma didn’t mention you were psychic.”

      “I’ve never claimed to be. But something happened when you got out of that car tonight. I recognized you, same as you recognized me. We’ve already done it in our sleep. Lots of times and lots of ways. Seems we may as well see what it feels like with our eyes wide open…

      “I’m going to take you, sugar. I’m going to make you beg. And then I’m going to make you scream. And you’re going to love it.

      “Now.” He patted his thighs again. “Come here.”

      His words—his dark and erotic threats—had her drenched. Telling herself that she really wasn’t giving in, that it wasn’t really surrender if she ended up getting what she wanted—a mind-blowing orgasm—she stood up and started to straddle his thighs.

      He shifted her so she was sitting sideways on his lap, her legs dangling over his. “You put that sweet hot pussy against my groin right now and there’s no way I’m going to be able to control myself.”

      He cradled her head against his shoulder and slid his hand beneath her skirt. Since he’d been gentle with her so far, she sucked in a harsh breath as his short square nails scraped a stinging path up the inside of her thighs.

      “You like that?”

      “Yes.” It was half sigh, half moan.

      “It’s just the beginning.” He rubbed a fingertip against the crotch of her silk panties. “You’re wet.” His exploring touch slipped beneath the elastic band. “And hot.” He combed his fingers through the triangle of curls as if he owned them. “Is that for me, sugar?”

      She flinched as that treacherous touch brushed against her clit. “What do you think?”

      “I think you’re the most responsive woman I’ve ever met. Even more than I’d imagined.”

      As if to prove his point, he skimmed a thumb over her clit and drew a ragged moan from between her lips.

      “You are so slick.” She sucked in a sharp breath as his finger penetrated her. “And ready for me.”

      He inserted a second finger. Opening her. Preparing her.

      “That’s it, darlin’.” He murmured encouragement as her body clutched at him. His treacherous thumb pressed down on the tangled knot of hot nerves. “Let’s see you ride.” His fingers thrust into her. Withdrew. Then plunged harder. Deeper.

      Her hips bucked. She drenched his hand as she rode him faster and faster, lifting her hips to press against his fingers, gyrating around his demanding touch, her hot, wet flesh making a harsh sucking sound on each upstroke.

      When his fingers suddenly arched inside her, and pressed against a secret spot at the roof of her passage, she cried out, stiffened, and exploded over him.

      “You definitely liked that.”

      It was not a question, but Roxi struggled to answer it anyway, which wasn’t easy with the top of her head blown off. “Y-yes.” She’d never believed the G-spot really existed. Sloan had just proved her wrong.

      Her inner muscles were clenching at him like a hard, wet fist. “Oh, God, yes.” Like didn’t even begin to describe the sensation.

      “Good. Let’s try it this way.” When his wickedly clever thumb found her clit again, she climaxed with a smothered scream, stiffened, then collapsed like a rag doll, sprawled bonelessly on his lap.

      The top of her dress was down around her waist, and somehow her skirt had ended up there, as well, as he’d hand-fucked her. Her panties were drenched and his powerful erection pressing against her bottom was driving her mad.

      “Sloan.” Her body moved restlessly, needing more. His fingers slid slickly out of her, leaving her cunt feeling abandoned. And empty. “Please.” She would have, if physically possible, split herself open for him. The climaxes he’d given her had only whet her appetite for more. “I need you.”

      “I know.” He stroked a hand down her hair. “And you’ll have me. We’ll both have each other. Later.”

      He tipped up her face with a fingertip beneath her chin. Touched his lips to hers, at first lightly, then deepened the kiss degree by devastating degree until she trembled and moaned against his mouth.

      “Amazing,” he murmured again.

      She could feel his satisfied smile and felt a spark of irritation at herself for making this so easy for him. “You really are a wicked, wicked man.”

      “Absolutely.” He slid her off his lap onto her feet. “And you’re about to find out exactly how wicked I can be.”

      Wanting to take his time, he debated tugging the dress back over her breasts, which were so enticingly displayed by the spiderweb thin lace of that corset she was wearing, then decided to stay with the theme of the evening.

      “As much as I really, really like that dress, right now I want you to take it off.”

      It was a test, and they both knew it. They also both knew that she wanted what was about to follow every bit as much as he did.

      Which was why he wasn’t all that surprised when she reached behind her back. The whispered sound of the zipper lowering sounded unreasonably loud in the hushed room.

      The dress slid down her body, pooling in a black, silken puddle at her feet. She stood before him wearing that lacy corset that lifted her breasts, erotically offering them up for a man to look at. To touch. Taste.

      She was—thank you, God!—also wearing a matching black garter belt, lace-topped stockings, and that drenched pair of panties that were so miniscule, he wondered why she bothered with them.

      “You look,” he said, drinking in the exquisite sight, “like you should be on some Victoria’s Secret runway.”

      She folded her arms. Shook her head. “Why does it not surprise me you’d watch that show?”

      “What can I say. Men are pigs.” The show was admittedly one of his guilty pleasures. He figured most men in America would watch if their wives or girlfriends let them.

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